Never Be Another Tonight
by Elianna22
Summary: Frosh Week only happens once, but sometimes the effects of one crazy night can last a lifetime. Especially when a bizarre video is involved. SEQUEL to "A Day at Santa Monica Pier." Epilogue: A love that lasts forever. COMPLETE
1. Do You Like Latex?

**A/N: If this were a movie trailer instead of an author note, a voiceover would announce, "From the minds that brought you **_**A Day at Santa Monica Pier**_** comes another tale of life, love, and latex in Los Angeles." This story is the sequel to ADASMP, which also appeared as Chapter 17 "Believe it, Woodman" of the Golden FanFic Award-winning story **_**Repercussions: Part 2.**_

**Heart-felt thanks go to Waldojeffers and Woundedhearts for reading early drafts.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own any characters from the **_**Suite Life**_**. Or **_**Zombie Mom. **_**On the other hand, I do own my OCs – Connor, Farshad, Louise, and others whom you will soon meet. I also own the plot, which does not portray any events, or sequence of events, that appeared in any episode of the **_**Suite Life**_** series.**

* * *

**Chapter 1: "Do You Like Latex?"**

* * *

_Who cares about tomorrow  
Let the wind fill your sails  
A runaway train ridin' on the rails  
We got the bases loaded  
Home run – power play  
Tonight's the night we're goin' all the way_

_Bryan Adams, "There Will Never Be Another Tonight"_

[-]

Tonight was going to be the best night of Connor Pickett-Martin's life.

The thought swirled about his head as he and the girl whose name he didn't know crashed through the door of her dorm room. From the way her tongue probed deeply into his mouth, as though she were trying to dislodge his back molars, he had a feeling he would get a lot more than he'd dared to hope for when he arrived at the party.

The party was on the top floor of his residence hall at UCLA, and Connor was glad he, Farshad, and Jackie had decided to check it out, even though they were still recovering from another Frosh Week bash the night before, at a frat house on the fringes of Beverly Hills. A crush of bodies filled the communal lounge, bouncing and swaying to a heavy techno-neo-Rasta beat. Cans of Coke spiked with rum were quickly pressed into their hands from other hands that extended octopus-like from the undulating bodies.

"Cheers, guys!" Connor had to shout to make himself heard above the music. Farshad Nazarov clinked his can against Connor's, then they both turned to Jacqueline Rovny, their new friend, a freshman who also lived on their floor.

"Cheers," she mouthed back.

Connor gulped down the Coke in three big swallows, wincing only slightly at the rum. He wasn't a big drinker, but this was Frosh Week. And what was Frosh Week designed for, if not drinking and partying?

The wall of people closed in on them as Connor knocked hips with Jackie and waved his hands above his head, reveling in the giddy freedom that characterizes Frosh Week all over North America. To his light-headed relief, he realized he didn't miss Misti McCrae, his long-term high school girlfriend, at all. Had barely even thought about her, in fact, since moving into residence on Sunday. Misti was now at a liberal arts college in Virginia, following a mutual, not-overly-heart-breaking agreement that long distance relationships "just didn't work," and Connor was embarking on four years of sand, surf, and studying in sunny Los Angeles. Life was good.

Before long, Connor became aware that a curvy dark-haired girl had joined their trio. Her hair spilled over her shoulders as she gyrated next to him in white terry-cloth short-shorts and a fuchsia UCLA tanktop that stretched enticingly over her ample chest. A lanyard hung around her neck, a key bouncing in the valley between her breasts.

Farshad caught his eye over the top of her head. Connor recognized the look of encouragement on his best friend's face. _Dude, go for it._ Farshad considered himself a ladies' man and had dated several girls throughout high school, though his relationships didn't last long, and never ended well. Connor attributed Farshad's success at least in part to the slight Persian accent that lingered on 10 years after he'd immigrated to the United States from Tajikistan. As Connor's dad said, "Chicks dig accents."

"Hey," said Connor to the girl, with what he hoped was a charming smile. Charm, his dad stressed, was also very important when talking to girls.

"Hey." Her lips moved soundlessly.

"Wanna dance?" he asked, raking a hand through his sandy blond hair. The alcohol and overpowering music dissipated any nervousness he might normally have felt.

She responded by spinning around and shimmying closer to him, hands up in the air.

He took that as a yes. Should he put his hands on her waist? Might as well. Gingerly he placed them there, fingertips on her hipbones, synchronizing his movements with hers. She seemed to mold to him and, encouraged by the tiny strip of black thong that nestled between her butt cheeks, his hands tightened. Farshad and Jackie had blended into the crowd. He was officially dancing with a hot girl on his third night of Frosh Week. Life was _very_ good.

As the beat intensified, along with the heat in the room, mixed with sweat and assorted perfumes and body sprays, so did the girl's moves. Misti had never danced like this, preferring instead to wrap her arms around his neck during slow songs and sway demurely.

But _this_ girl, she was practically grinding her butt into him now, her cheeks peeking out below her shorts, and Connor felt himself reacting. Would she mind? Should he be embarrassed? He couldn't help it, though. She was incredibly sexy.

Suddenly he was face to heart-shaped face with her chestnut eyes, perfectly tweezed eyebrows, and luscious lips, coated with bright red lip gloss. Cupping her hand around his ear, her rum-scented breath hot on his cheek, she said, "Let's get out of here."

Connor nodded instinctively, and within an instant she was towing him through the throng. Among the blur of faces, he was sure he'd seen Farshad flashing him an emphatic thumbs-up.

One corridor and one unlocked door later, they were tumbling into darkness, mouths plastered together.

_Tonight is going to be the best night of my life._

The girl broke away from Connor to flip on a desk lamp, illuminating a shoebox-sized dorm room with two narrow beds, one made-up, one with sheets and blankets askew. Evidently the girl's roommate hadn't moved in yet.

She pushed him up against the wall. Her hands were under his navy blue UCLA t-shirt, in his hair, her knee wedged between his.

More parental guidance asserted itself through the haze of hormones and lust overtaking Connor's judgment. From his mom, this time: _Be a gentleman._ Before any further swapping of bodily fluids took place, they should know each other's names and a bit about one another.

He removed his right hand from the crook of her neck and held it out. "Hi, I'm Connor Pickett-Martin, from Dallas, Texas," he said politely, taking care to draw out his vowels. _Chicks dig accents._ "Born and raised." While Dallas had been home for nine years, his actual place of birth was Kettlepod, Kansas, a lame blip of a town. But he didn't need to tell her that. One of the main reasons he'd come to L.A. was to bury the last shreds of his redneck past.

The girl ignored this introduction and proceeded to yank his t-shirt over his head.

"What's your name?" he asked through the t-shirt. As she started to unbuckle his jeans, he added, "Where are you from?"

She stopped to stare at him. _Uh oh..._ Had he said something stupid?

Then she blew out a breath that sounded slightly exasperated. "My name is Louise Linett," she replied with discernible impatience. "I'm a sophomore, from Seattle. Majoring in art history. I'm allergic to cats. I like finger-painting, long walks on the beach, and corrupting cute, innocent freshmen like you."

_She thinks I'm cute! Sweet!_

Louise snapped the waistband of his blue plaid boxers. "Now drop 'em," she commanded.

_Woah, she's, uh, forward._ Connor finished undoing his jeans and let them fall to the floor. Gulping back his trepidation, he pulled down his boxers. His erection sprung up. His heart thumped.

_Does she like what she sees?_ he wondered nervously.

Another yes, he presumed when she kneeled, licked her lips, and enveloped him in her mouth. Shudders of pleasure rocked him as she ran her tongue tantalizingly along the underside of his shaft, and he had to lean against the wall to steady himself.

"Oh, wow," he moaned breathlessly. Louise's enthusiastic ministrations were _nothing_ like Misti's shy, awkward efforts. She was making him tingle in places he didn't even know he could tingle.

But what to do with his hands? Putting them on her head might be perceived as rude. In as gentlemanly a manner as he could, he rested them on her tanned shoulders, toying with her hair and brushing it out of her eyes as needed. His pulse was racing like a fat man's on a treadmill.

Abruptly Louise stopped and rose to her feet. Her lip gloss had been completely rubbed off.

_Don't stop_, he wanted to beg, though perhaps it was a good thing she had. He was getting a little too close to the point of no return. With Misti, he'd always had to warn her when he was close so she could look away.

Louise's next move was to haul him to the unmade bed and push him down onto it. He kicked off his flip-flops and she did the same with hers, then bent to pull a box from under the bed. Sounds of rummaging ensued.

Connor pictured whips, chains, and handcuffs, breathing out a sigh tinged with relief when she asked, as casually as though inquiring whether he liked pepperoni as a pizza topping, "Do you like latex?"

He nodded vigorously. "Absolutely. I love it." He was an 18-year-old guy possibly about to get laid for the first time. He loved everything. Well, except BDSM. His dad's friend Bob had lost a nipple thanks to a girl with those interests, and Connor wished to keep both of his in tact.

Louise popped a DVD into the player on the desk. "This one's my favourite," she said, pressing buttons on the remote. "It only had a limited release, but it's _sooo_ hot." She peeled off her tanktop and shorts to reveal a simple black bra and the previously glimpsed black thong. "Now say hello to Mr. and Mrs. Latex," she instructed and lay beside him, her right knee on his stomach.

Connor put his tongue back in his mouth and looked to the TV. The screen flickered with images of a man and woman romping on a large bed. Their black latex clothes intrigued him. The woman was strapped into a waist-cinching corset that pressed under her breasts. The rest of her outfit consisted of thigh-high boots attached to her corset with garters, a thong smaller than Louise's, and fingertip-less gloves that ended at her elbows. The man had on a short-sleeved vest, biker-style shorts with an unsnapped front panel, and similar gloves. Both of them wore head masks with holes for their eyes, noses, and mouths. The woman's mask had two extra holes through which poked her brown knotted pigtails.

As intriguing as their outfits were, though, digital breasts couldn't beat real ones, and right now Louise's were mere inches from Connor's face, straining against her bra cups. Tentatively he unhooked the front clasp, because he knew how to do that, and kissed her right nipple. It puckered under his tongue. He felt Louise exhale.

Even more tentatively he allowed his hand to creep up her thigh to the edge of her thong, the only scrap of fabric separating them from complete nakedness. Louise grabbed hold of his hand and ground it against her crotch in a way Misti had occasionally permitted him to do, but never for very long. "It's OK, you _are_ allowed to touch me," she said. The impatience was back. "At this point, I'm pretty much a sure thing."

So Connor slid his right hand underneath the flimsy material into her warm, damp folds and she resumed the blowjob. He moved his left hand down to support her head. Her legs spread a little wider as his fingers grew bolder in their explorations.

A cacophony on-screen disrupted his concentration.

"I swear she's not faking it here," Louise commented, her mouth full. "She's really enjoying herself. It's such a turn-on."

Connor glanced at the screen. The latex woman certainly seemed to be enjoying her partner's oral attentions. Her head was thrown back, her mouth open in an O-shape, one hand cupping her breast and other holding the man's head, and she was making a lot of noise. Yet, while Connor couldn't disagree with Louise that the video was hot, something about it seemed off. The aspect ratio, perhaps. But whatever, he didn't really care what was happening on-screen. He was much more interested in trying to make sure he and Louise enjoyed _them_selves.

His hand ventured into her thong again, his thumb nudging the hard nub of her clit, lightly at first, then more intently. Louise groaned, her lips sending reverberations down his shaft. Her hips were beginning to buck. Connor's were, too. How would it feel to be inside her? He wanted to know, with a curiosity that verged on desperation. What would it be like to slide up into that slick silky wetness, to feel her gripping him...

Louise stiffened. She whimpered and he felt her entire body quiver.

Half-startled, half-delighted, Connor asked, "Did you just...?" He could never tell with Misti. She would lie there quietly, sigh once, then say "I'm done" and push his hand aside.

"Mmmm hmmm." A saucy smile flitted across Louise's face. She winked. "But don't worry, I'm not finished yet." And down went her mouth again.

"Ohhhh," Connor gasped as his stomach clenched involuntarily. He was so hard his erection was throbbing painfully.

Louise sat up. "You're about to pop aren't you?" she asked.

"No..." he denied.

She treated him to another lick, causing his stomach to tense precariously.

"Maybe," he admitted.

_Oh, who am I kidding?_

"OK, yeah," he concluded.

Louise's mouth curved into a wide, seductive grin. "Well, then let's slow things down a bit," she said. "We haven't got to the main event." She stretched out between his legs and stroked him languidly with her tongue.

Connor settled against the pillow, trying to catch his breath. They were going to have sex. She had confirmed it. He was going to lose his virginity tonight. The thought of it nearly made him explode from anticipation.

Seeking a distraction, he returned his eyes to the TV. What were Mr. and Mrs. Latex up to now?

They were locked in a doggy-style position doing something Misti wouldn't ever have considered. And likely never would.

_I didn't know girls enjoyed that_, Connor observed. _Especially not _that_ much_.

The camera panned around the panting pair, stopping at an interesting angle. It was then that Connor noticed the birthmark on the woman's left hip. A strawberry-shaped birthmark, much like the one on his mom's left hip, visible only when she wore a bathing suit.

He shook off the queasy coincidence. Plenty of people had birthmarks. He, for example, had a small brown blob on his inner left thigh, currently obscured by Louise's head. Proof that birthmarks were very common, he told himself.

As he watched, the woman reached behind to hold onto the man's left forearm. For better leverage, Connor guessed. The force of her grip tugged down the man's glove, and Connor's jaw dropped at the lines of blue that appeared above the latex. His dad, a Special Forces veteran, had a bunch of names tattooed on his left forearm. In blue ink. In that exact spot.

_No, it's just a very creepy and disturbing coincidence. It has to be._

The camera swooped in, close enough to show a pattern of scars emerging from the edges of the man's vest. Connor felt faint. His dad also had scars on his back and chest, from doing "soldier stuff," as he put it. _But that can't be him._ Connor wanted to shut his eyes to block out the possibility, pull a blanket over his head, but before he could budge, the camera zoomed onto what he had somehow missed until this moment. The Marines insignia and motto tattooed below the man's right shoulder. Same as below his dad's right shoulder.

_Oh no..._

Oblivious to Connor's distress, the man let go of the woman's right pigtail and began to slap her butt. With each slap, the birthmark jiggled and Connor's heart skipped a horrified beat.

They were his parents. Mr. and Mrs. Latex were his _parents_.

_Noooooo..._ His mouth froze, the word mutating into a death cry in his ears, as if his inner child was being swallowed up by the La Brea Tar Pits, where he'd gone with his parents and little sisters on Sunday. _No, Mommy, this isn't happening, you would never do this, no..._

The two sides of the fight or flight impulse battled each other briefly. Flight won out. Connor's neural pathways began to shut down. His optic nerves refused to relay more information to his visual processing centre.

"Hey! What's going on?"

An angry voice jarred him back to the dorm room. Back to the irate face frowning at him from between his legs, that of hot sexy Louise who wanted to relieve him of his virginity. Back to what was supposed to be the best night of his life.

Connor looked down. His erection was gone. He was limp. As limp as a flower in the desert during the dry spell of the century.

"Well?" Louise demanded. She sat upright, arms crossed over her breasts, eyes slanted into a glare.

"Umm, I..." His insides were roiling, the taste of rum and Coke burning in his throat. He put his hand over his mouth, afraid he was going to throw up.

The glare deepened. "Let me guess, you just had your college gay epiphany, didn't you?" More to herself, she grumbled, "Not _again_."

"No," Connor said feebly. He didn't want to hurt her feelings. "I'm not gay... it's just that... I... I... uh..."

"What? You what?"

"I... um..."

"Yeah, that's what I thought," she snapped dismissively.

But what could he say? The truth was too horrible to explain to her, let alone admit out loud. _Ever._ All he really wanted to do was curl up into a ball and die. Gouging out his retinas with a sharp instrument was a close second.

Louise took matters into her own hands. She jumped up and gathered his clothes and flip-flops from the floor.

"Here." She thrust them at him, her face a thundercloud. "Just get out. Go have yourself a gay old time."

Meek with shame and horror, Connor took them from her and allowed her to propel him to the door. "I'm sorry," he mumbled just before it slammed in his face.

Clothes clutched to his nether regions, he slid into a heap on the floor. At least now he had the chance to curl up into a ball. Locating a sharp instrument would require more effort than he could muster. As for whether he would actually die, that remained to be seen.

The corridor was empty, the communal lounge at the far end deserted. Campus security must have cleared everyone out. Cans and pizza boxes strewn about were the only remnants of the party that had been in full, sweaty swing just an hour ago. For all the evidence left, the entire party could have been an illusion, couldn't it? Just a temporary nightmare. Like the ones he had after watching the B-rated cult classic _Zombie Mom_. Or someone could have slipped an extra something into his drink — meaning the whole wretched encounter had been nothing but a crazy, drug-induced trip through some twisted Freudian pocket of his mind.

An indeterminate amount of time had passed when Connor heard a familiar voice. "Dude?"

He looked up to see Farshad standing in front of him, dark eyes glittering inquisitively in the dim light of the corridor. His brow furrowed in consternation. "What the he–?"

That was as far as he got. A hand shot out, like a movie monster seizing its next victim, followed by a bark from Louise: "Get in here, cutie." The door slammed again, and a moment later Connor heard her exclaim, "Damnit, I missed the Halley's Comet. It's the best part of the whole video."

Connor shuddered. Whatever a Halley's Comet was, he was sure he didn't want to know. And he was very sure he didn't want to hear anything else coming from Louise's room. He shuffled to his feet, holding tightly to his clothes, and stumbled off in search of his own dorm room.

[***]

_Tonight is the worst night of my life._

Worse than the time he fell off Daddy Moose's barn roof when he was six and had a concussion for two days. Worse than the day he lost his little sisters, Shi and Mel, at the Texas State Fair. Even worse than the time he and Farshad accidentally crashed Uncle Cody's Lexus, which had led to the equally unpleasant experience of being grounded for three months and missing eighth grade prom.

The thought was still circling his brain like a starved vulture when the door clicked open and Farshad tiptoed into the dark room, fumbling his way to his bed. Connor rolled over and buried his face in his pillow. He hoped it was just his imagination that Farshad seemed to be limping. Could this night get any worse? For a moment he felt as though an evil unseen narrator were deliberately torturing him, rubbing its hands together in malicious glee while he squirmed and suffered.

Farshad climbed into bed without saying a word.

Connor sighed miserably._ It's going to be a long quarter_. _Maybe I should have gone to Harvard instead._

* * *

**A/N: Will Connor ever get over this experience? Will he ever be able to look his parents in the eye again? And where are Woody and Addison of Woodman Studios fame? Could they have had something to do with this video? Stay tuned! : ) And please read and review, because your feedback and ideas are always a valuable source of inspiration, and always make me smile. Xoxoxo – Ellie **

**P.S. For those of you who've read R2, Connor's fall from the barn roof was mentioned in Chapter 6 "Accidents Happen." Bob's nipple misfortune was mentioned in Chapter 13 "Parklife." Zack met Farshad Nazarov at the end of Chapter 22 "I Have Something to Tell You."**


	2. The Offer Still Stands

**A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews for Chapter 1, you guys are such an awesome bunch! We're jumping back in time for this chapter. It contains some back-story, particularly for those of you who are new to this AU. For those of you who've read R2, this chapter takes place four weeks after Chapter 31 "Do You Play Video Games?" in which Zack and Bailey officially reunited after eight years apart (and six weeks after ADASMP).  
**

**Buckets of thanks once again to my patient, talented beta-reader Waldojeffers, and a special shout-out to loyal reader and fellow Swede Den123 who graduates from high school today (Swedish time). Grattis! :)**

* * *

**Chapter 2: "The Offer Still Stands"

* * *

**

**ELEVEN YEARS AGO...**

Bailey Pickett had just placed the sheet of chocolate chip cookies in the oven, enchanted by the refreshing normalcy of baking cookies on a Saturday afternoon while the boys were out, when the phone rang.

At the name on the call display panel, a smile bloomed on her face. "Hey, y'all," she greeted the two familiar faces that appeared on the phone's video screen. "Wow, what a surprise!"

Woody and Addison Finkwright waved at her. "Hey, Bailey. Long time no see!" Their voices had a speakerphone-ish echo.

"_Very_ long time," she agreed. She hadn't seen them in eight years, since the day they all graduated from Seven Seas High in June 2011. Back then Woody and Addison had been two of her closest friends. Now they were the First Couple of Adult Entertainment and proprietors of Woodman Studios, best known for their _Debutante Debauchery_ series. In fact, the actual last time she'd seen them, Woody had been giving Addison a fuzzy phoenix in _DD_ 4, which her ex-husband Moose had brought home in a bid to spice up their decidedly lackluster love life.

"So, how are you guys?" she asked, eager to think about something else.

"We're great, just great," bubbled Addison. "But how are _you_? How's Zack? We got an email from him that you guys are back together."

"We're good. Everything's really good. You just missed him, but he'll be back soon." She pulled out a chair from her kitchen table, moved it into a patch of sunlight, and sat down.

Addison burbled on. "That's so awesome. When he visited us in September, we were kind of worried, I mean, he seemed really depressed, but we didn't want to ask too many questions. It was obvious he didn't want to talk about whatever he'd been through, and we didn't want to push, you know?"

Bailey nodded. She knew that feeling.

"I thought about trying to seduce him on the Ferris wheel at Santa Monica Pier, just to cheer up him," Addison added offhandedly, "but it didn't seem right."

_It better not have! _retorted a voice in Bailey's head. Before transferring her manically talkative attentions to Woody, Addison had crushed on Zack, causing Bailey a great deal of anguish and frustration. Zack had told her that Woody and Addison were now swingers, which diminished the offensiveness of Addison's seduction plan, but only just.

Woody jumped into the conversation then. "I'll bet you were totally shocked to see him, what with that email we sent you."

"Totally shocked"? That couldn't even _begin_ to describe her reaction to either event to which Woody was referring. The email they'd sent her in July 2018 informing her that her high school boyfriend, the father of her child, had been killed in action near Afghanistan had thrown her into a tailspin of grief that had broken up her marriage. But could anything — _anything_? — have been more shocking than Zack Martin showing up at her house in Amarillo, Texas, on a fabulously cool Harley, four weeks ago to this day, very much alive, and even more unbelievably, still in love with her? It was the stuff of fairytales, of epic Hollywood romances, and yet it had happened. To _her_. Proof that life could be amazingly unpredictable.

And since no words could do their reunion justice, she simply said, "I sure was. I'm just so thankful to have Zack in my life again, and part of our son's life."

"Oh, that's right, you guys have a kid," said Woody. Zack's email had obviously mentioned that tidbit of news.

Bailey readied herself for what was sure to be the next question — "Why didn't you tell him about the kid?" — but instead Addison chimed in with, "We're becoming parents, too!"

"Congratulations!" Bailey exclaimed. She eyed the perfectly flat belly below Addison's melon-sized breasts. "When's the baby due?"

"Next week," Addison replied happily.

Seeing Bailey goggle, Woody explained, "We're adopting. My cousin and his wife were killed in a car accident, and adopting their son Simon felt like the right thing to do."

Tears of sympathy flashed into Bailey's eyes. "That's so sad, but so sweet of you guys. How old is Simon?"

"Six."

"Awwww." Bailey's heart went out to the bereaved little boy. "Almost the same age as Connor. He turned seven in April." Up until Zack's unexpected appearance, Connor hadn't known about his biological father, so she'd never had to tell him about Zack's supposed death. She couldn't even fathom how this poor orphaned Simon was feeling.

"We've been wanting to start a family for a while now," Addison said, "but I need to keep my figure for work, and the jury is still out on me breastfeeding."

Bailey chose not to comment on this. "You're going to _love_ being parents," she gushed. "It's just the most rewarding, fulfilling experience you can imagine. And you can call anytime for parenting advice."

"Thanks, Bailey," said Woody. "We're really excited about Simon." He and Addison spent the next few minutes telling her more about their future child until another phone began to jangle.

"Sorry, I have to get this," he apologized, getting up from the sofa where he and Addison were sitting.

In the background Bailey heard him say, "That's what I said. Pearl earrings for all the debutantes."

"That must cost him a lot," she remarked.

"Yeah, in effort," Addison snorted.

Bailey touched the plain gold hoop in her left earlobe. "I wouldn't mind a pair of pearl earrings myself."

Addison just laughed.

It occurred to Bailey that she and Addison might not be talking about the same thing, but before she could decide whether to clarify this, Addison chirped, "OK, time for girl talk. So, tell me, what was it like being with Zack again? Did you two totally rip each other's clothes off?"

"Yeah," Bailey confessed, her stomach suddenly aflutter, "we did. As soon as Connor was in bed." She sighed. Making love to Zack that first night had been profoundly intense, an unleashing of nostalgia and need, both of them starving for each other like animals in heat. Luckily Connor slept like a log, otherwise he might have been scarred for life.

"Ooooooh, Bailey, you're blushing!"

Bailey couldn't deny that she was. A pleasant warmth was spreading from her cheeks to the rest of her. She would never tire of re-memorizing Zack — the press of his hands on every part of her, the force of his hips, the unabashed vulnerability she felt with him, and saw reflected back at her in his eyes, and how they seemed to turn a smoky shade of blue just before he...

"Do I hear wedding bells?" Addison interjected slyly.

Bailey took a moment to breathe in the comforting aroma wafting from the oven. The cookies were almost done. "Well, I'm still waiting for my divorce to come through, but he's definitely the one. I think I've always known that."

"Is he going back to the army?"

An obvious and very valid question, especially given that Zack had been a Special Forces operator rather than a foot soldier. Bailey gave the only answer she could: "I don't know. I don't think he does, either." _But I hope he doesn't go back_, she added mutely, giving in to the childish impulse to cross her fingers. _God, I hope he doesn't. _

"Is he working right now? Like for Cody?"

"No, not anymore, but he's still getting back pay from the army. He's on leave until the end of the year."

"Has he told you about what happened to him?"

"Yeah, a little bit." Bailey had already come to accept that she would probably never learn the full story of Zack's experiences during the year he'd been presumed dead. But that was to be expected. Soldiers generally didn't share combat details with their families. All she really knew was that he had been imprisoned and tortured somewhere in Central Asia, and had somehow escaped.

"He is OK, though, right?"

"He's fine," she replied lightly. _At least I think he is. _

The timer dinged then, and Bailey excused herself to remove the cookies from the oven. In spite of how quickly she and Addison had re-established their chatty high school rapport, she didn't feel comfortable confiding her worries about Zack. They were just too personal. At night she often awoke to him muttering and shaking in his sleep. Occasionally he would jolt violently when she touched his shoulder, unsure if she should wake him, and a few times she'd found him sitting out in the backyard long after midnight, staring at the stars. However, there had been no outbursts at the dinner table, or dishes thrown against the wall, the way post-traumatic stress disorder was typically portrayed in movies. So that was a good sign. And a three-week stint as Cody's bodyguard, which Zack had claimed made him feel as useless as a screen door on a submarine, proved he was capable of holding down a job. Not that she was pressuring him to work, of course — not when they had only just reunited and he was still on medical leave. Second chances didn't come along everyday, and she would stay with Zack no matter what, even if that meant supporting them on her modest salary as a technician at a farm animal clinic.

_Most importantly, _she told herself as she set the cookie sheet on the stovetop to cool,_ Zack is terrific with Connor. And Connor needs his father. We just have to take things one day at a time._

When she picked up the receiver, Woody had rejoined the conversation.

"Don't worry, Bailey," he said cheerfully. "With a stinking rich brother like Cody, Zack doesn't even need a job." Clearly they had been discussing her situation.

"No," she objected, determined to believe this statement was absurd. "He's not like that." While she honestly didn't know what Zack's career plans were, he'd never given her any indication that he intended to rely on handouts from his twin brother, future CEO of Tipton Martin Industries, hailed by _Forbes_ magazine as the New Face of Corporate America, if he didn't take another military job.

"Have you seen London and Cody at all?" Addison asked, and Bailey mentally thanked her for changing the subject.

"No, not yet. But they're coming here for Thanksgiving." Hosting Thanksgiving dinner had been her own idea, so that Connor could meet his aunt and uncle in a familiar setting. The boy had been through so much upheaval in the past year, with the divorce, the move to Texas, the discovery of Zack, and now a new extended family who was anxious to meet him. It was too early for a trip to Boston, or to some exotic locale that billionaires frequented. No, London and Cody could come to them. The closer the holiday drew, though, the more her nerves jittered. Dinner with the penthouse-dwelling, private-jet-travelling couple had begun to loom like a job interview for the position of sister-in-law. In high school she'd been destined to shine, had taken all AP classes along with Cody, once a dear friend. She'd even won a scholarship to Yale. What would they think of the resume she'd ended up with — of the non-Ivy League degree hanging on her wall and her job at the farm animal clinic? Of her three-bedroom bungalow that was bright and cozy but in its current state, far from spotless? Of her second-hand car that constantly needed repairs? London's sneering she could withstand, after all she was used to it from their days at Seven Seas High. Would Cody sneer as well? Zack merely told her not to worry about it, that it didn't matter what his brother and London thought of their home. He had never seen this insecure side of her, and frankly she hadn't either. At the very least, she hoped to win bonus points for not having surfaced with Connor in the wake of Zack's death, seeking child support. That had to count for something.

"Connor must've been pretty excited to find out he's related to such a wealthy family," Woody said.

Addison grinned. "I'll bet he's _really_ looking forward to Christmas this year."

Finding out you had a proverbial rich uncle, a figure straight out of American mythology, also didn't happen everyday. Easing Connor into the reality of his Tipton Martin relatives fell squarely under the umbrella of Bailey's "one day at a time" policy. "Well, we haven't actually told him how rich Cody and London are," she said. "Just that they're coming to visit. I want him to have a good relationship with his new family members, and not just see them as a bottomless source of presents and perks. He hasn't been raised like that, and he's dealing with enough changes as it is."

"That's understandable," Woody said, nodding.

"You don't him want growing up thinking money can solve everything," Addison said. "That's what we're hoping to teach Simon."

"And I don't want him to resent me for not introducing him to them sooner," Bailey admitted after a pause.

She could see Woody rolling his eyes. "Bailey, I think you're overreacting. Connor's just a little kid. He doesn't see the big picture."

"Exactly," Addison supplied. "He's going to care a lot more about having his real daddy around than having a rich uncle."

"I guess you're right," Bailey said, absorbing this logic. "I just don't want to overwhelm him with all these changes."

Woody's phone rang again. "It's Stacy," he reported to Addison. "Well, Bailey, I hate to cut short this talk about family values, but I've got to get back to the studio before the clean-up crew thinks they can slack off. When you do that many pearl earrings in a day, it can get pretty messy."

Addison nodded. "Very messy."

"Um, yeah," Bailey concurred. _Nope, we _definitely_ weren't talking about the same thing._

"It's been great catching up with you, Bailey. Say hi to Zack for me."

Bailey waved to Woody. "Will do. Great talking to you, too, and all the best with Simon."

"And I have to go warm up for a TP," Addison chipped in when her husband was out of sight.

"What's a TP?" Bailey couldn't help asking.

"It's when–"

"You know what," Bailey interrupted, hearing her car in the driveway. "I'll just wait for the video." She didn't want to risk Connor walking in to her uttering in disbelief, "You put _how_ many cocks _where_?"

Addison winked at her. "OK, you do that."

"Thanks so much for calling, Addison." Bailey stood up. "I'll talk to you again soon. I definitely want to hear all about Simon."

"Yeah, for sure. Oh, and tell Zack the offer still stands."

"OK," Bailey agreed before the realization could finish forming in her mind. _Zack didn't mention any offer, did he?_

"Wait, what offer?" she asked hurriedly, but Addison had already clicked off.

Seconds later, Zack and Connor erupted into the house. Zack had Connor slung over his shoulder. Connor was screaming with laughter, arms and legs flailing. Smears of chocolate ice cream covered the lower half of his face.

"Hey, honey," she said to her son. "I just baked some chocolate chip cookies. Go wash your hands, then you can have one."

"Can I lick the spoon, too?" Connor asked, his eyes lighting on the mixing bowl still on the counter.

"I think you've had enough, little trooper," Bailey laughed and ruffled his hair. "Better wash your face, too."

"OK, Mom." Zack set Connor down, and he scooted out of the kitchen.

"Did you two have a good time downtown?" she asked Zack. She untied her apron and hung it over the back of a chair, smoothing the wrinkles from her blouse.

"Yeah, it was fun," Zack answered, spoon in mouth.

Bailey rolled her eyes playfully. _Like father, like son._ Connor was virtually a miniature version of Zack, a blond-haired, blue-eyed angel with a rambunctious streak, tempered by a lovably sweet disposition that she wanted to take credit for, but suspected was part of a unique melding of nature, nurture, and his own inherent Connor-ness. In short, he was absolutely and completely adorable. Just like his daddy.

Zack finished licking the spoon clean while she watched.

"Woody and Addison send their best. They just called," she mentioned.

"Oh, really? How are they?"

"They're great. They're adopting."

"No kidding? I didn't think Addison was the maternal type."

When his finger dipped into the mixing bowl, she sidled up to him to scold, "Not so fast." Taking his hand, she sucked the batter slowly off his finger.

Zack smiled and leaned to kiss her, his lips brushing hers.

Bailey prolonged the kiss, enjoying the chocolate taste of his mouth, the instant racing of her pulse. He wrapped her long brown ponytail around his hand (he never could keep his hands off her hair), the gentle tug bringing her deeper into the kiss and her hands up to his face. Her thumbs pressed the ridges of his cheekbones, which were more prominent than they'd used to be. _How long will this honeymoon phase last?_ she wondered.

"Zack!" Connor yelled from down the hall.

And with that, the kiss ended.

"Be right there, buddy," Zack called back. The smile had faded from his face. His eyes clouded for a moment.

She laid a hand on his shoulder and planted a soft kiss on his cheek. "He'll call you 'Dad' soon, don't worry," she said reassuringly. "Just give him time. It'll happen." _One day at a time._

Her heart lifted when Zack's smile returned. "I know," he said. "It's only been a month." He kissed her cheek and headed for the hall. Playtime was over.

"Oh, before I forget..." Bailey's memory jogged in the midst of figuring out what she needed to get done during the remaining hours of the day. "Addison said to tell you the offer still stands. What offer would that be?"

Zack's left eyebrow rose quizzically, then dropped. He let out a casual, vaguely self-conscious laugh. "While I was in L.A., Addison offered me a part in the next _Debutante Debauchery_ movie."

"Really?" Bailey surprised herself by feeling amused and impressed rather than angry and appalled. Surely it couldn't hurt to ask. "What would you have to do?"

Zack looked down the hall quickly and stepped back over to her. What he whispered in her ear made her flush crimson and bite her bottom lip.

Shooting a glance over his shoulder to double-check that Connor wasn't within earshot, she rubbed her hips against his and wiggled them. Then she flicked an eyebrow up and, keenly aware of the coy-but-curious look on her face, asked, "Does it pay well?"

Bug-eyed, Zack stared at her, his face breaking into a grin that stretched from ear to ear.

* * *

**A/N: So now we know both the answers to whether or not Zack likes latex, as posed by Woody in ADASMP, and to how Woody and Addison are connected to the video that traumatized poor Connor in Chapter 1. We'll be returning to "present day" in Chapter 3, which in this timeline would actually be 2030. Given that 2030 is so far in the future, there will be some technological advancements to reflect this futuristic era but for the purposes of keeping the story simple, 2030 won't look *that* much different from today. If there are any technological advancements or other futuristic developments you'd like to see, please feel free to PM them to me (after you've posted your review, hint hint :) and I will do my best to incorporate them. Love & thank-yous from Ellie – Xoxoxo  
**


	3. A Little Latex Goes a Long Way

**A/N: We're back in the present day (2030) with another excursion to Santa Monica Pier. Think of this chapter as "A Day at Santa Monica Pier Revisited." And if you're eating or drinking anything as you read this, please feel free to carry on.**

**Continued thanks to my wonderful beta-reader Waldojeffers.

* * *

**

**Chapter 3: "A Little Latex Goes a Long Way"

* * *

**

_I'd be safe and warm  
If I was in L.A.  
California dreamin'  
On such a winter's day_

_The Mamas & the Papas, "California Dreamin' "_

[-]

_You know you're lonely when you're at the beach, the sun is setting, and you're by yourself_, Connor reflected. He was lying flat on his back in the sand, hands folded behind his head, staring up at the mid-December sky. It could have been a postcard with "Wish You Were Here" scrawled across the top in loopy writing, the sky pebbled with indigo-coloured clouds that gave way to orange streaks blending into the reddish-gold rim of the horizon. A sight too stunning even for loneliness to ruin.

As the bottom of the sun dipped below the ocean, Connor knew he was about to get lonelier.

He'd been at the beach for hours, driving down to Santa Monica after finishing his final exam of the quarter, without dropping by his dorm room. Farshad, who had finished his exams two days earlier and was taking advantage of post-exam parties, had joined the list of people whom Connor was avoiding (top name, Louise Linett). He'd last seen Farshad gallivanting with a pair of Swedish twins.

Taking a full course load had severely curtailed beach time over the past three months, such that this was Connor's first trip to the waterfront city, teeming with joggers, bicyclists, beatniks, and a steady parade of tourists, all in the shadow of the Ferris wheel at the amusement park on its world-famous Pier. The balmy 65-degree sunshine affirmed that despite the rocky start, UCLA had been the right choice. If he'd gone to Harvard as a legacy student, right now he would be holed up in a dorm watching snow fall, daydreaming about the beach instead of hanging out at it. Yet that had been the plan up until Farshad had received a full scholarship to UCLA, putting an end to comparing offers from various Boston schools for the best financial aid package. At that point Connor had acknowledged that not only did he want to go to the same college as his best friend, but he wasn't sure he was cut out for Ivy League pressure, though he had the grades for Uncle Cody's alma mater, and he definitely wasn't cut out for bitterly cold New England winters. Ultimately, his internal compass pointed to Southern California, to the City of Angels, the Big Orange, the Entertainment Capital of the World. La-La Land, newly smog-free and bursting with optimism. Where, as cheesy as it sounded, the sun was always shining, the future arrived everyday, and dreams really did come true.

Time had flown by as he wandered out to the end of the Pier, soaking up its carnival atmosphere and trying to unwind, while at the same time trying to side-step the hordes of families. Big families, small families, and families of all sizes in between, each with its own set of laughing, boisterous children who ran ahead of their parents, clamouring to go on rides. Exactly how ten-year-old Shi and Mel would have acted if they were here, or Connor himself, if he were still a carefree little kid rather than an angst-ridden college freshman.

The presence of so many families unnerved him, especially the children. Children were blatant and irrefutable evidence that parents had sex. All parents. Including his. But, spoke up the Voice of Denial, a constant companion since That Night, the number of times parents had sex corresponded directly to the number of children they had. Therefore, in the case of Connor's parents, they'd done it once when he was conceived and another time when his sisters were conceived, which had happened during their honeymoon — killing two birds with one stone by eliminating the need to have more children, since three were plenty, and by extension, eliminating the need to ever do it again. And that was it. They'd fulfilled their quota. No more sex for them. At no other time had his parents had sex. And certainly not while dressed in black latex with a camera rolling. A camera that captured their every movement for the viewing pleasure of hundreds, thousands — millions? — of horny spectators. Because the couple in the video had not been his parents.

Not them. No way.

_Whatever you need to tell yourself to sleep at night_, counseled the Voice of Denial.

Now that the sun had almost disappeared into the ocean, the families were retreating to the restaurants that lined Santa Monica's bustling Third Street Promenade and the beach had become couples territory. Connor could see them as he turned his head from side to side. Hand in hand they strolled, lost in their private two-person worlds. A few other couples snuggled together in the sand, lost in their public displays of affection.

Connor sighed, filling his lungs with salty air, and rolled over onto his elbows. The five churros he'd eaten flip-flopped in his stomach as if he'd just ridden the roller-coaster. Which he hadn't, since he had no one to ride with. He checked his watch. It was 4:45, 5:45 in Dallas. The task could no longer be put off.

With any luck, he thought, pulling his phone out of the pocket of his jeans and switching off the video feature, nobody would be home and he could just leave a voicemail.

His dad answered on the third ring, squashing this hope like a cockroach underfoot.

"Hey, Dad," said Connor, cringing at his false cheer. He would need to curry favour during this opening exchange — curry it, pepper it, and ginger it. Hell, he'd need an entire rack of spices, much like the mechanical spice rack Uncle Cody had invented that had saved Tipton Industries from bankruptcy and was now found in 30 million kitchens worldwide.

"Hey, Connor, we've hardly heard from you all term." Yep, Dad was concerned. "What's going on, buddy?"

Adjusting his voice to sound apologetic, Connor replied, "I've been really busy." While this wasn't strictly a lie, he'd been dodging calls from his parents ever since That Night, rationalizing that a weekly update by email would suffice. Not talking to his parents was unusual for Connor. Unlike many of his friends, he hadn't gone through a phase of stereotypical teenage rebellion, hadn't felt the drive to subject them to emo-thrash metal and facial piercings. Though he joined in when friends bitched about their folks' embarrassingly uncool behaviour, if he was honest with himself, on the scale of parental lameness, his folks scored on the low side. Sure, they had their moments, like when his mom showed Misti his baby photos right after meeting her. Including the naked ones. Or the night he snuck out his bedroom window to go to a party while grounded, only to have his dad drench him with the garden hose in full view of his friends who were waiting in a car down the street.

But what parents didn't have moments? At least they didn't treat him like a built-in baby-sitter for Shi and Mel, or coerce him into helping out in the garden. And unlike parents of certain friends, who had offered to buy them cars if they stayed in Dallas for college, his mom and dad had told him he could go wherever he wanted. They hadn't even kicked up a fuss when he changed his mind about going to Harvard. Plus, his dad was a vet. Connor had never been told the stories behind the scars or the 12 tattooed names, but he understood his dad had served his country under conditions more harsh and life-threatening than anything he himself could imagine. It was tough to disrespect a man like that. Connor knew he was lucky to have a dad at all.

"Well, I hear you about being busy," Dad said sympathetically. "Business has been crazy since September."

Connor breathed an inward sigh of relief. "That's good." With tuition, residence, and out-of-state fees, UCLA was costing his parents upwards of $60,000 a year. While his dad made good money as a security consultant for some of the biggest companies in the Dallas–Fort Worth Metroplex, limiting Connor's access to financial aid, and his mom worked part-time as an animal technician, without Uncle Cody pitching in Connor feared his parents and sisters would be forced to subsist on dog food.

"Can't complain." Papers rustled, and Connor pictured his dad sitting in his home office, feet propped on his cluttered desk. "Shit," Dad groaned then. "I was supposed to call Heliotech this afternoon. Where is my head?"

"Up Mom's ass." The words were out of Connor's mouth before he could stop them.

"_What_ was that?" Dad asked amid more rustling. Connor recognized his you're-being-a-smart-ass voice.

"I said, I think I made the Dean's list," Connor amended hastily. Sublimating the traumatic effects of That Night into his courses had yielded some genuine benefits. _Thank God for defense mechanisms._

"That's great, son. Good for you."

In spite of the circumstances, Connor glowed at the pride imbuing his dad's voice. "See, you're getting your money's worth." He plowed on with more good news. "I just declared my major, Political Science. It'll be a good foundation for anything I want to do next, law school, an MBA, or some other grad program." He took a breath, then proclaimed what he felt would be his trump card. "And I picked a minor, the Reserve Officers' Training Corps."

Connor didn't need the video screen on his phone to see his dad's smile. It beamed through the satellite waves straight into his handset. "Good choice, son. Leadership skills never hurt anybody."

"I'm just taking the Basic Course for now," Connor elaborated, feeling he should go into more detail. "But I might take the Advanced Course, too. I'm pretty sure combat isn't for me, but maybe combat support, like military intelligence, or service support."

"Hey, you don't have to decide anything yet. Your mom and I will be proud of you no matter what you do. You know that." Connor could tell his dad was still smiling as he said this. Even if he didn't join the army, the ROTC counted as serving his country, albeit in a much smaller way than Special Forces.

"So, what time does your flight get in?" Dad asked a moment later.

And with that, the reprieve was over. Connor's heart dropped to the pit of his stomach like a stone into a chasm. The axe was about to fall.

"See, that's the thing..." he said, hearing his voice meander on its own, "I was thinking of staying in L.A. for Christmas."

The shocked silence lasted only a few seconds before his dad demanded, "What? Why?"

"Um..." Connor floundered, his throat closing.

"You're not in some kind of trouble, are you?"

"No, nothing like that," Connor said quickly, wondering if his dad was joking. Guilt has beginning to eye him as though it were a drooling, hungry beast and he were an all-you-can-eat buffet.

"Come on, your mom–" Dad coughed and Connor nearly gagged. "Will be very disappointed, and so will your sisters. And I miss you, too, buddy."

"I... I can't..." Connor stammered.

"What do you mean you can't?" Dad pressed. "Are you sure you can't come?"

"Yes, Dad," said Connor in clipped, miserable tones, "I'm very sure that right now, I can't come." _In more ways than one_, he added silently. "It's... complicated."

"It's a simple question, Connor," Dad stated with military precision. "We deposited money in your bank account for a plane ticket, now what reason could you possibly have for not coming home for Christmas?"

Connor raced through the excuses he'd prepared. Helping a professor with a research project for extra credit? _He'll never buy it, or else he'll think I'm a total nerd_. Bike-a-thon? _No city would have a bike-a-thon over Christmas, not even L.A._ Without knowing he was going to, he blurted, "I met a girl. She's from Sweden, she can't go home for Christmas–"

"No, no, say no more," Dad intervened in an entirely different tone. "I understand. I know what it's like when you meet a special girl."

_Yes!_ Connor sat up, heart soaring. _Crisis averted._

"But be careful, son," Dad said. "As my drill sergeant used to say before we went on leave, sex can last until morning, but syphilis lasts a lifetime. Just remember, a little latex goes a long way."

Parts of Connor's brain melted at the sheer discomfort. "I won't forget," he muttered. _Although I wish I could. God, how I wish I could._

"And don't worry, Connor, I'll break the news to your mom. I'll make sure she doesn't take it too hard."

"Thanks, Dad," said Connor weakly, blinded by a searing white light that protected his imagination from such horrendous imagery. The direction of this conversation had to change. "I'll, uh, I'll save the plane ticket money for April." _If I go home for the summer, that is._

To Connor's surprise, his dad said, "No need. Spend it on your Swedish lady. Consider it a Christmas present."

"That's great, thanks." Into his befuddled thoughts flashed the ad he'd seen on the _Westside Today_ website promoting the services of one Dr. Raj Wolowitz, certified psychotherapist. Now he could afford therapy that wasn't covered by his student health plan, and could thus be concealed from his parents. Merry Christmas.

"You're going to miss out on your mom's famous eggnog, though," Dad said. He laughed. "She put too much rum in the first batch, as usual."

"Oh, um, that's too bad." Connor had always enjoyed this family tradition, being allowed to drink alcohol like a grown-up, but the taste of rum was now intolerable. Another side effect of That Night. To further the change the subject, he asked, "So, where are Shi and Mel?"

"Down in the basement watching the remake of _The Mask_."

Connor suppressed a minor cringe. "Mia Talerico was really good in that."

"Do you want to talk to them?"

"That's OK, I'll call them later. I should, um, get going anyway." Not that he had anything to look forward to outside of playing Xbox² in his dorm room for the next three weeks.

"Oh, before you go, Connor, if you and Miss Sweden need to take a break from each other over the holidays, you can always visit Woody and Addison Finkwright. They live in Brentwood and they'd love to see you again."

"Yeah, sure. Maybe they'll put me in one of their movies." His parents' high school friends, Woody and Addison, were independent movie producers. Connor pictured himself schmoozing at star-studded screenings at the Sundance Film Festival, jauntily replying to anyone who asked, "Yeah, I'm in a headliner."

"We'll talk about that another time," said Dad, his dismissive tone dispelling the fantasy. "Actually, I was thinking you could hang out with their son Simon. He's around your age."

"Well, I guess I could call him," Connor said without much enthusiasm. He had only a fuzzy recollection of Simon from a short stay in L.A. en route to Vegas for the big Christmas celebration where he met his grandparents Carey and Kurt for the first time and his parents got married. Young Simon had not been a happy camper, preferring to sit in a corner of his parents' lavish rec room bawling his eyes out, leaving Connor to play _Halo _10 on a very large TV screen. "He could probably show me around the city. I haven't seen much of L.A. due to being so busy with school."

"Sounds good. I'll text you the Finkwrights' number." Paper rustled again.

Connor felt his mood brightening. The city sprawled behind him, a maze of lights and freeways and possibility. Santa Monica was a mere corner of this unexplored oasis. Outside of visiting the La Brea Tar Pits on Move-in Day, his biggest excursion prior to today was a compulsory drive along Sunset Boulevard to gawk at the mansions of Beverly Hills and Bel Air with Farshad, capped by a brief visit to Rodeo Drive where all they could afford were smoothies. More disheartening had been the discovery of a parking ticket tucked under the windshield wipers of his crappy hybrid sedan with the bad clutch, bought with savings from an equally crappy summer job at a grocery store and parked on a side street at Farshad's insistence "to minimize our current lack of status." They hadn't yet gone surfing at Venice Beach or hiking in Runyon Canyon, activities they'd discussed excitedly after accepting their admissions to UCLA, nor checked out any museums for sporadic doses of culture — or even Disneyland, where you could always be a kid. At any rate, Connor hoped, Simon would be an outdoors person. He needed to start getting in shape for the ROTC.

"Daddy! Daddy!" Two high-pitched voices shrieked in the background.

"Hold on!" Dad yelled back. "I'm coming, I'm coming!"

"Well, I should really go," Connor tried again.

The escape door bolted shut when, following a series of muffled noises, his dad said, "Your mom just got home from work. She wants to say hello."

Then his mom was on the line, inquiring, "How's my little trooper? And what's this about you not coming home for Christmas? Dad said something about a girl...?"

Guilt smacked its lips. "Helga, from Sweden," Connor explained faintly. "She can't afford to go home for Christmas, so I didn't want to leave her here all by herself. She's really nice... and um, we're helping a prof with a research project for extra credit."

"Aww, that's very sweet of you," Mom said, seemingly mollified. "I'm glad you're making new friends, and I'm sure Helga appreciates a Southern gentleman."

"I'm all about the Southern charm, Mom." _Not that's it done me any good so far._

"But remember to use protection," she said, echoing his dad. "I'm too young to be a grandmother. No glove, no love."

Visions of latex fairies danced in Connor's head. "Yup, protection, won't forget," he said briskly. Harking back to the favour-currying theme, he proceeded to safer topics — his Dean's list prospects, Poli Sci major, ROTC enrolment, and a bit about his courses.

She listened attentively, which helped the awkwardness to recede.

In the middle of describing Intro to Political Theory, he was interrupted by squeals of "Hi, Connor! Hi, Connor!"

"Hi Shi, hi Mel," he said, waving automatically at his little sisters. He was about to switch on the video screen so they could see him when they trilled, "Bye, Connor! Bye, Connor!"

And they were off again.

Connor sighed. Having talked to all members of his family, and knowing the four of them would be sitting down to dinner soon, he felt entitled to let himself off the hook. "I gotta go, Mom. Say bye to Dad for me."

"Well, OK, honey..." Mom's voice trailed off. She sniffled.

"Mom?" he asked uneasily. Just as well the video feature was off. He couldn't bear to look at her stricken face. _Please don't cry_, he willed her.

"Connor, honey, I just miss you so much," she burst out. "This is the longest you've ever been away from home. Christmas won't be the same without you."

Finally the crooked, oversized teeth of Guilt were sinking into him. "I miss you, too, Mom," he said and meant it. _But not enough to come home and look you in the eye. Because then I'll know it really was you in the video. And my brain will implode, very, very painfully._ "I'll talk to you again, soon, OK?"

He could see her teary nod as she said, still sniffling, "OK, I love you, Connor."

"Love you, too, Mom."

"If you decide you do want to come home for Christmas, you're welcome to bring Helga."

Connor winced as Guilt took another chunk. "OK, Mom."

After hanging up, he sat with his head resting in his hands. He was sweating in the evening chill.

_It wasn't them it wasn't them it wasn't them._

His phone buzzed. A text from Farshad, he assumed. About time, too. Now he had to figure out how to tell his best friend he was staying in L.A. for Christmas. With Helga, one of the Swedish twins, no less.

He clicked on the message icon. The text was from his dad.

_Woody, Addison & Simon Finkwright – 925-555-7532_

_May as well give Simon a call_, Connor resolved, saving the number to his contacts list. _What have I got to lose?_

_Nothing_, he answered his own question given that there was no one else around to, save for the Voice of Denial and a couple making out on a blanket, several feet away. And he could guarantee the guy and girl were oblivious to him, and to all the other couples on the beach.

The last wash of sunset had faded, dusk exposing patches of star-pricked sky between the clouds. Lights on the Pier blazed and twinkled, crowned by the neon spectacle of the Ferris wheel. He shivered, pulling his jean jacket closer around him. The breeze had picked up, carrying shouts of laughter toward him, and the tide had begun rolling in, moving closer with each layer of waves that crashed against the shore.

Heaving a sigh so dispirited that a spasm of pain shot through his chest, Connor pushed to his feet, brushed the sand from his jeans, and started back to his car.

* * *

**A/N: Thus ends another day at the iconic Santa Monica Pier. Please read and review. Your thoughts are greatly appreciated every time! Xoxoxo – Ellie**

**For readers of R2, the Christmas Vegas trip where Connor he met Carey and Kurt for the first time and Zack and Bailey got married was mentioned in Chapter 32 "The Million-Dollar Kiss, Part 1." In the timeline of this AU, it happened in December 2019.  
**


	4. Jack and Jill Went Up the Hill

**A/N: I don't usually write long A/Ns, but this time I'm breaking my own rule… This story was always intended to be shorter than JOotG and R2 (although it's tripled in length from the original plan), and for that reason, this chapter contains a time skip and couple of flashbacks to fill in gaps, and to make use of specific short story–telling techniques. The next two chapters will also contain some flashbacks. All flashbacks are indicated with straight lines (no italics since they're a challenge for visually impaired readers).**

**Because this story contains OCs, the CP/BF and I decided we needed actors to play these characters to help us — and you guys — picture the events. So here is the official cast of OCs up to Chapter 4:**

**Connor Pickett-Martin — Sterling Knight (more like his character in **_**17 Again**_**, but still as cute as CDC)  
Farshad Nazarov — Michael Steger  
Simon Fink — Seann William Scott (circa **_**American Pie**_**)  
Heather Symonds — Amy Smart (but shorter)**

**Heart-felt thanks once again to beta-reader extraordinaire Waldojeffers.

* * *

**

**Chapter 4: Jack and Jill Went Up the Hill

* * *

**

**THREE AND HALF YEARS LATER...**

_Put on your best dress darling  
Can't you see the time is right  
There will never be another tonight_

_Bryan Adams, "There Will Never Be Another Tonight"_

[-]

"Ladies and gentleman," Farshad intoned after Simon had handed him the microphone, "dearly beloved..." here he paused to wink at a few female guests, "and sort of liked, it brings me great joy to see you all here tonight as we celebrate this very auspicious occasion."

Farshad paused again, and Connor couldn't help but marvel at the change in his accent that had taken place throughout almost four years of living in L.A. Farshad's Persian overtones now sported a distinctly Parisian nuance, which he claimed enhanced his mystique as an exotic, debonair globe-trotter. And judging from the rapt expressions worn by the majority of girls among the 50 guests gathered at Melo Bar & Lounge — and one or two of the guys — the technique worked.

"Having known Connor for 13 years, I feel should start at the beginning and tell you that the day I met Connor's father in the Fann Mountains of Tajikistan was the luckiest day of my life."

"Why does he always make this part sound like _Brokeback Mountain 3_?" Simon whispered loudly to Connor.

"Simon!" Connor flicked his free hand, the one that wasn't holding his fiancée's, across the back of Simon's head.

Accustomed to Simon Fink's wise-cracks, Farshad simply lifted an eyebrow and continued his speech. "How could I have known that a chance encounter with an American soldier would change my life forever? That I would be rescued from a backwater hellhole and brought to the Promised Land, a world previously glimpsed only on satellite television broadcast on grainy screens in shabby hotel rooms during rare family trips to the capital city of the land of my birth?"

Connor had heard the story many times of how his dad had met Farshad while lost on a training mission in Central Asia. The incident had involved a yak, a cave, and two AK-47s. In Farshad's version he'd nearly shot Connor's dad, who in turn called this a gross exaggeration. The outcome was that Uncle Cody had arranged for Farshad's family to immigrate to the United States as a thank-you for helping Connor's dad during what had apparently been a rough patch.

Farshad's voice swelled passionately. "This opportunity was beyond any of our wildest imaginings, especially my father, a cotton factory worker who resorted to yak herding when the Aral Sea dried up, taking his livelihood with it. Today he owns the biggest Quick-E Mart in Dallas. For the American Dream is within reach only if one has a ticket to these gold-paved shores, a circumstance that every downtrodden Third World peasant longs for. And on that serendipitous day, the heavens smiled upon my family and me and decided that we would be given a shot."

If Farshad's budding career at Tipton Martin Venture Capital ever grew stale, Connor mused, he could have a bright future as a motivational speaker.

"But enough about my humble roots," Farshad said placidly, winking at a trio of girls who were swooning at his every word.

"That's a first," said Jackie Rovny under her breath, causing Simon to snicker.

"Most important of all, meeting Zack Martin led to meeting Connor, my best friend, my partner in crime, a guy I'm proud to call my brother from another mother." Farshad looked at Connor with a beatific smile on his face. He placed a hand over his heart. "Dude, I just can't tell you how thrilled I am that you're taking this big step."

The earnest words elicited a flashback to the drive up to Melo.

* * *

_Two hours ago..._

"Dude, I think you are making a huge mistake," Farshad professed as they whipped around a sharp bend.

Connor kept his hands clamped to the steering wheel, squinting in the glare of July sunshine. "Dude, you've already told me this."

"Well, obviously it didn't take since you went and proposed to the damn girl." Farshad shrugged so expansively that his elbows touched Connor's. "Why would you agree to wear the world's smallest handcuffs?"

With a weariness that stemmed from saying the same thing at least 300 times, Connor replied, "Because I love her." What other answer could there be? He was head over heels in love with Heather. He wanted to run through the streets of downtown proclaiming it. Shout it from the roof of Griffith Observatory, the top of the Hollywood sign. L.A. was saturated with colour, vibrant with more hues and shades than he'd ever noticed before. Every sappy pop ballad that KROQ played on his daily commute to and from work, formerly cringe-inducing, now made startling sense. He even understood why Tom Cruise had once jumped on Oprah's couch expressing his love for Katie Holmes, an episode that lived on in pop culture infamy though it had happened some 30 years ago. The world was Connor's trampoline, and Heather Melora Symonds had made it so.

"She makes me feel..." he struggled to explain, for what also seemed like the three-hundredth time. How could an emotion so powerful — so all-consuming — be so difficult to explain to an intelligent person like Farshad?

"Young again?" Farshad finished for him. "Dude, that's because you ARE young! You're twenty fucking two years old. Why do you want to throw your life away? You can do that later, when we've made our fortunes and traveled the world, sampling the Earth's bounty of booty."

"I can do all that with Heather, and besides, her booty is the only one I'm interested in sampling."

Farshad's eyes were rolling behind his sunglasses. He flipped down the vanity mirror to scrutinize his black-haired, olive-skinned reflection. He pushed a piece of gelled hair behind his ear, then readjusted his sunglasses. "This is just like Misti all over again. Except this time you're getting a little bit more."

It was Connor's turn to roll his eyes, as much as he could while focusing straight ahead. A Porsche was zooming at them from the opposite direction. "I'm getting more than a little," he assured Farshad. "I'm getting a lot, dude, the stuff she does for me–"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm sure," Farshad cut in as the Porsche sped by in a red, rumbling blur. "Anyway, I still think you're making a huge mistake, but if you're happy, then it's a good mistake."

"You sound like my mom." A comparison Connor never thought he'd make.

"Your mom's hot."

"Shut up!" Connor shouted. He wanted to reach out and smack Farshad, but with another hairpin bend coming up, he didn't dare take a hand off the steering wheel. The electric BMW Z9 roadster, a graduation present from Uncle Cody, took the curve with a breath-taking ease honed by more than a century of German engineering expertise. To the left, L.A. unfurled in an endless shimmering expanse, the way it looked from above, dropping farther and farther below as the road twisted up the sun-streaked hillside. As scenic as the Hollywood Hills were, though, Connor preferred freeways to roads that had "canyon" in their names. At any time other than rush hour, driving on a freeway could put him in a Zen-like state, at one with the rhythm of the city, congratulating himself for having learned to stay in the correct lane as he zipped along from interchange to interchange.

"It's true," Farshad folded his arms, grinning smugly. "If your parents weren't so sickeningly in love, I'd totally be your dad by now."

Connor had to laugh. "Dude, I'm so glad you're my best man."

Farshad laughed, too. "You know it."

* * *

Farshad was still smiling, microphone in hand. "I love you, man," he declared and held out his arms.

Connor stepped up to hug his best friend. "I love you, too, buddy," he said affectionately, slapping his hands on Farshad's back. Various girls, including Heather, cooed, "Awwww." More quietly, he said, "Thanks for not mentioning the AK."

Farshad gave a self-explanatory shrug. "It's not smooth," he said. "Anyway, I save that part of the story for the ladies."

Simon walked up to them, plainly itching to reclaim both the microphone and the limelight. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, that's very sweet, very _Brokeback_. Now it's my turn. I don't even know why I let you speak first, seeing as how I'm the host of this Jack and Jill party."

"Yeah, whatever." Farshad relinquished the microphone and sauntered over to the three swooners, whose swooning thus intensified.

Connor returned to Heather's side and took her hand, relishing the electric tingle of her fingers squeezing his. The classic Beatles song chorused in his head. _I want to hold your ha-a-a-a-nd. I want to hold your hand._

"When I first met Connor, he had this deer-in-headlights look, like life had just run him over," Simon began. "But I took the young lad under my tutelage–"

"I'm older than you, dude," Connor pointed out, laughing.

Simon forged on. "I showed him the ways of the world and made him my apprentice. I taught him everything I know." He paused to smirk. "Well, almost everything, because I can't have him outdo me."

Connor shook his head. _Such a character._ Not once had he regretted calling Simon Fink that first depressing Christmas in L.A. when he'd felt like an exile — a stranger in a land that seemed relentlessly strange without the anchor of classes and campus social life. But that was all water under Santa Monica Pier now, and Simon had become a close friend. Gone was the sad little boy who had just lost his birth parents in a tragic car accident. In his place was a quirky entrepreneur who was constantly on the go, from friends' homes to coffee shops, parties to the occasional acting class at the New York Film Academy, where he was a part-time student. Farshad likened to Simon a less obnoxious Steven Stifler from the vintage _American Pie_ movies, whose adoptive mom also happened to be a MILF.

"In fact I was the one who introduced him to Heather. It was my very first event with my company, Simon Says Party" — Simon's buoyant voice scaled down a notch — "event planning for weddings, parties, and corporate events focusing on Beverly Hills and the Westside, where we guarantee you an unforgettable event experience." His voice rose. "I had hoped to charm Heather myself, but security came to me about a small problem that only I, as the person in charge, could solve. I remember it as though it were yesterday..."

Connor remembered the night just as clearly. He didn't need to look at Farshad to know what he was thinking.

_Because, dude, it basically _was_ yesterday._

But it hadn't been yesterday. It had been seven months ago, almost to the day.

* * *

_Seven months ago..._

"Dude, we are going to have so much fun tonight," Simon predicted as he and Connor strode up to the entrance of the Nouveau Bel Age Hotel in Beverly Hills while the valet parked Simon's car. "Here," he said, producing two VIP passes from his shirt pocket, "this will get you into the event."

"Why are there two passes?" Connor asked, taking them from Simon.

"Well, I'm not exactly old enough to get in," explained Simon, who was still 20. "Got my fake ID just in case, but it's best to have a VIP pass 'cause the staff doesn't question them." His brown eyes gleamed and he rubbed his hands together, practically vibrating with excitement. "And wait'll you see the chick I got in there waiting for me. She is _hot_." Loyally, he added, "I'm sure there'll be one for you, too."

"I'm not really looking for anything," Connor said, "but thanks." Having just finished exams for the fall quarter of senior year, he was simply looking forward to a night of freedom, to chilling out after weeks of hardcore studying.

Simon made a face. "Aw, dude, don't be like that just because Misti dumped your sorry ass. Again."

"She didn't dump me!" Connor protested hotly. "It was amicable, and anyway, long distance relationships just don't work." A summer fling with Misti after freshman year had morphed into an on-again, off-again liaison. Currently it was off. But on the bright side, Misti had exceeded Connor's expectations in the adventurous department, so rekindling the high school flame hadn't been a total bust.

Simon looked like he was about to make a witty retort when his phone rang. "I got to take this," he told Connor. "I'll meet you inside."

Phone to ear, he answered, "Simon Says Party. Talk to me." Waving Connor ahead, he said with professional-grade assurance, "Yes, sir, I'm just getting to the event now."

_Just like his dad_, Connor thought as he entered the hotel. Because Simon spent very little time at his parents' house, located in a gated community in Brentwood, Connor had only met Woody Finkwright a handful of times. And during each one, the movie producer had been interrupted by an urgent phone call, leading to barked demands and dramatic hand gestures, both frequently obscene.

Tonight's event was in fact a birthday party for a friend of a friend of a business associate of Woody's, held at a club on the hotel's top floor. The true nature of the movies Woody and Addison Finkwright produced had thrown Connor for a loop, as well as shattered his dream of indie film stardom. The Finkwrights' status as adult entertainment moguls had also shed light on how the latex video had likely come to exist (pun _not_ intended). But again, water under the Pier. Connor had never breathed a word to Simon about the latex video, or about That Night. Those details would remain forever sealed in a confidential file at the office of Dr. Raj Wolowitz.

It wasn't until he'd walked into the club, showing his pass to the gorilla-sized security guard hulking at the door, that Connor realized he had both passes. He had just put them in his shirt pocket and was turning to go when he looked up to see a beautiful angel.

She was standing in front of him like a Botticelli painting breathed to life. A mane of wavy honey-coloured hair. Lithe petite body hugged by a lacy scarlet dress with thin shoulder straps, a shallow v-neck, and a hem that flared at her knees. Deep sea-green eyes highlighted by shimmery powder brushed on her eyelids up to her brows. Mouth the shape and colour of a rosebud. Lightly rounded apple cheeks and a pert nose that gave her face a girl-next-door sweetness.

The scuffle going on a few feet behind him, of which he learned later, didn't make a dent on his radar.

"My buddy, the guy you just let through, must have my VIP pass," Simon was insisting to the security guard, who blocked his path. "No problem, here's my ID. I'm the event planner, which technically makes me your boss, by the way."

Ignoring this credential, the security took a moment to inspect Simon's driver's license. "This is fake," he sneered.

"Funny thing..." Simon persisted, then changed tack, poking his head around the security guard to shout, "Connor!"

Very, very dimly Connor registered the sound of someone calling his name, but he was too transfixed by the beautiful angel to react.

"Connor, I'm hi," he said. _God, did I really just say that?_ _Out loud?_ "I mean, hi, I'm Connor," he corrected, mortified by the blush already heating his cheeks. "I'm not actually high."

"I'm Heather," said the angel.

"Yes, you are. I'm sure you are." Connor kicked himself mentally. What was happening to his IQ?

"So, what do you do?" she asked.

Connor's voicebox refused to articulate anything but "Um, um, um..."

"Oh, you work for Um?" she asked, tilting her head to one side. Her hair draped sexily over her shoulder. He wanted to touch it. His fingers ached. "Does that come with dental?" Her quizzical smile showed off her even, white teeth. Like two rows of perfect pearls.

"I'm a student," he managed. "Senior. UCLA. Poli Sci."

Heather blinked her lovely eyelashes. "So, you're not in the industry?"

Connor's heart plummeted like he was on the drop-tower ride at Disneyland. The standard L.A. question, pegging the event as a movie industry party. _Of course_. "Uh, no, my buddy dragged me along," he admitted, feeling obligated to sound apologetic that he couldn't further her Hollywood hopes. "He's the event planner. Simon..." For the life of him, he couldn't remember Simon's last name. "Simon Says. I don't even know the guy whose birthday it is."

Now that his identity was out in the open, he prepared to be dismissed.

Yet Heather just bit her lower lip, a powerfully endearing gesture, and asked, "Can I get you a drink?"

"That would be coolsome." She was numbing his brain. "I mean, awesome. Uh, cool. I'd like that."

Heather returned from the bar carrying two fruity-looking cocktails, adorned with green parasols. "Here you go, a Lime Sunset." She handed him a glass. "Cheers."

They clinked glasses and Connor took a swig, his taste buds shriveling at the tart lime taste. "Smooth," he croaked. When they had sufficiently recovered, he recycled her opening question. "So, what do _you_ do?"

"I'm in my last year at USC," she replied, surprising him. "Majoring in Public Relations, hoping to get a job at a talent agency after I graduate in May."

_So she's not an actress._ "Oh, is that why you're here?" he asked. "To network?"

Heather sipped her drink. Her lipstick left two pink blots of the rim of her glass. She nodded. "Yeah."

The ball was in his court. Connor wracked his diminished brain for something to say next.

The ball stayed stubbornly at his feet, as though it had sprung an air leak. Heather twisted a strand of hair around her finger. He noted her dainty wrist, the oval shape of her fingernails, their understated French manicure.

More air seeped out of the ball.

Into the silence, punctuated by twangy bass notes from a jazz band by the pool, she said, "I'm also doing a minor in Peace and Conflict Studies."

Connor's heart rebounded. _At last, common ground._ "No kidding?" he said. "My uncle is a benefactor of that program. He founded the Tipton Martin Foundation for World Peace."

Heather's eyes sparked with recognition. "Cody Martin is your uncle? He gave a talk in one of my courses this semester on ethics in a technological society. The impact of technology on individuals, social institutions, and culture, that sort of thing. Fascinating guy."

"Yeah, he is." Connor braved a second sip of Lime Sunset. "My uncle, and a fascinating guy."

_Smooth, Connor. Really smooth._

But if Heather disagreed, she didn't let on. The conversational ball bounced between them as she segued to praising the Foundation's newest scholarship program for refugee students, which Connor concurred was a wonderful idea. From there, they progressed to talking about school and the reality of graduating in just a few months. June loomed like a cliff of the type he'd rappelled down in the ROTC's Basic Course — a combination of exhilarating, because it gave him a chance to unbridle his inner warrior, and terrifying, because rappelling was flat-out dangerous. Uncle Cody's promise to hire the world's best plastic surgeons to reconstruct his face, if necessary, had not alleviated his anxiety.

By the time Connor had finished sharing his graduation/rappelling analogy with Heather, downplaying how scared he'd been at first, he realized he hadn't seen Simon yet. He glanced about at the clusters of attractive, well-dressed people surrounding them. It was like flipping through a friend's photo album, recognizing faces here and there, without being able to put names to any of them. "Some of these people look oddly familiar," he remarked. "Must've been to too many of these industry things with Simon."

Heather turned another soul-melting smile on him. "Want to dance?" she asked. Her hand touched his arm, a warm, fluttery sensation.

Connor looked down into her bottomless sea-green eyes and felt himself falling. "Yeah."

She led him outside, where other couples were dancing, and set their drinks on a table.

Dancing erased the need to talk, and they eased into silence under the starry December sky. Right away, Heather felt soft in his arms, like he could protect her from any threat that might menace upon her in this city of vast distances and ambiguous dangers. Even in her strappy red sandals, she only came up to his shoulder. Her cheek nestled in the groove between his neck and collarbone and her breasts, two firm mounds, pressed below his ribcage, her arms molding to the small of his back like they belonged there. The fresh floral scent of her perfume filled his nostrils. If he never saw her again after tonight, he already knew that he would forever associate it with her.

He had no idea how much of the night had slipped by when he became aware of a new silence. The band had stopped playing, and Heather was gazing up at him. And then she was standing on her tiptoes, hands on his shoulders, and a moment later her lips had brushed his.

Connor was stunned. Speechless.

"Sorry, sorry, I shouldn't have..." Heather stuttered, her cheeks pinkening. The corners of her mouth curled in distress. "I don't know why I... I, I, I better go..."

She stepped aside, and suddenly he couldn't stand the thought of her leaving, of having nothing to remember her by but a fleeting, flowery smell. Couldn't stand her sad pout, her fear that she'd disgusted him or scared him off.

Because she hadn't — not in the least.

It had been a long time since he'd done anything so impulsive. He grabbed hold of her shoulders and brought his lips down onto hers. They parted, allowing his tongue to move in as she kissed back, her tongue sliding alongside his, sweet bursts of lime filling his mouth. He was drunk on their tangy flavour, infinitely better-tasting than the Lime Sunset. Drunk on that summery perfume. On her very tiptoes, Heather encircled his neck with her arms and he wrapped his own underneath them, pressing her closer and closer to him. His hands burrowed into the silkiness of her hair, stroking her neck, his fingertips finding her delicate earlobes.

A white noise began to bleach away the din of conversations going on around them, ice cubes tinkling in glasses and swells of laughter, the band starting another set. The only sounds he could hear were his pulse beating in his throat, Heather breathing into him. Eventually the whiteness absorbed the kaleidoscopic glimmer of spotlights on the pool, the spangled sky, and the glittering grid of L.A., spreading out in all directions.

Connor was falling again, hot, breathless, spinning.

* * *

He'd been falling ever since.

* * *

**A/N: Can any song capture the optimism and sweetness of young love quite like The Beatles' "I Want to Hold Your Hand"? :) And on another note, hopefully the time skip wasn't too jarring… all connections between present and past will make sense soon (I promise!). Present-day is now June 2034, and there won't be any more time skips. Thanks so much for reading, you guys, and as always, please review because your reviews bring about more than smiles — they help create a better story. Xoxoxo – Ellie **

**For readers of R2, now we have another take on the fateful meeting between Zack and Farshad at the end of Chapter 22 "I Have Something to Tell You." Cody launched the Tipton Martin Foundation for World Peace after Zack was declared killed in action. London suggested the Foundation offer a scholarship for refugee students in Chapter 28 "Code W!"**


	5. Simon Says Party!

**A/N: ****Thanks for the reviews, guys, and for tolerating the time skip. On with the story… so far, we know who Connor is in love with. Über-womanizer Farshad is also in love — but in a different way.**

**OC Update  
Jens Jiménez — Miguel Veloso (Portuguese soccer player)  
Peter Whitfield, Jackie Rovny, and Johanna Bahde are inspired by fellow FF authors Waldojeffers, Woundedhearts, and DC World, respectively.**

**Ongoing thanks to Waldojeffers for incomparable beta-reading, and to Man of Faith for additional insights.

* * *

**

**Chapter 5: Simon Says "Party!"

* * *

**

"By the time I finished sorting out matters and got into the party, Connor and Heather, the girl _I'd_ had _my_ eye on, were so gaga over each other, I couldn't have pried them apart with a crowbar," Simon continued. "And for the most part, you still can't. But since Connor is my best friend, I don't mind being cock-blocked so hard."

Connor leaned to kiss Heather, prompting another round of "Awwws" from the crowd.

"Congratulations, you two." Simon came up behind them and slung his arms around their shoulders. "I'm really happy for you. As soon as you pick a date, my people will be right on it, making sure your wedding blows your expectations out of the water, and then some."

"Thanks, buddy." Connor gave Simon a hug, and Heather kissed his cheek.

Simon kept his arms around them. "And, Connor, your bachelor party will have epic debauchery. Songs will be sung about it." With his left hand, he pinched Connor's chest. "Oops, wrong one," he quipped as Connor slapped his hand off.

"And on that note, it's my turn to speak." Heather's best friend and co-worker, Peter Whitfield, had torn himself away from his Euro-hunk boyfriend, Jens Jiménez, and taken the microphone out of Simon's right hand.

Standing in the centre of Melo, he said, "Hi everyone, I'm Heather's friend Peter and I absolutely love her. Not the same way Connor loves her, of course," he blew a kiss at Jens, "but she's my soulmate, an amazing girl, and I'm so honoured that she asked me to be her Man of Honour."

"For those of you who don't know Heather that well," he continued, "she grew up in Portland, Oregon, and moved to L.A. to study PR at USC. That's where we met, and in the four years I've known her, this is the happiest I've ever seen her. Although I have to admit, when she told me she'd met a UCLA guy, I did have my doubts."

An assortment of boos and cheers arose, alluding to the intense rivalry between the two schools.

"But before long, any doubts disappeared, because I could see that Heather was genuinely falling for Connor. She talked about him all time, and I mean _all_ the time. How he listens to her and doesn't just talk about himself, and is totally OK with her having her own life. How they have so much in common. They both love sushi on Ventura, discussing current events over coffee for hours, going to see obscure ska revival bands, and just hanging out at the beach all day. And how they even have the same guilty pleasures, like watching cheesy horror movies like _Zombie Mom_ that scared them silly as kids and Disney TV shows even though they're both 22. I remember one night in particular when they'd been dating for a few weeks... Heather and I were at our favourite bar in WeHo, she'd had a few drinks, and she turned to me and said, and I quote, 'Peter, I feel like the world is a candy store and it's filled with Connor-pops, Connor-sicles, gummy Connors, jelly Connor beans, and Connor-flavoured truffles with creamy centres.' She was so sweet and starry-eyed, and I thought to myself, 'Yep, he could be the one.' That and he's a very lucky guy."

Beside Connor, Heather was snickering into her palm, red-faced. Guests were snickering, too.

"So, I wasn't too surprised when she called me on the night of their six-month anniversary to tell me he'd popped the question..."

* * *

_One month ago..._

He had everything ready, everything in place.

Ring: a two-carat diamond on a platinum band set with tiny aquamarines, Heather's birthstone. He'd chosen the ring because it was different from a run-of-the-mill diamond solitaire. It was elegant and unique — like Heather herself.

Place: rooftop of the Nouveau Bel Age Hotel, where they'd met exactly six months ago. Gourmet dinner, Heather's favourite chardonnay, and a bottle of champagne for after the meal. He'd even hired the same jazz band that had performed at the birthday party that night.

Proposal: not just one proposal, but six, each rehearsed in front of the bathroom mirror while Farshad was at the gym.

He also had the required stamps of approval. His friends thought Heather was great, her friends thought he was great, and each had met the other's family. Heather's parents and younger sister had visited in February, and he'd taken her to Dallas over Spring Break. His parents had liked her, and his siblings adored her, especially three-year-old Kieran. Connor barely knew his bubbly little brother, but couldn't help trusting his simple childish judgment. Kieran, born at the beginning of sophomore year, had poked serious holes in Connor's "no more sex for them" theory. So what? _Water under the Pier_, he reminded himself sternly.

All he needed now were the cojones to go through with it.

As they danced by the pool, in the very spot where they had shared that first magical kiss, Connor held Heather close to him, trying to still the runaway beating of his heart that she could surely hear. He and Heather had discussed marriage, but only in a light, someday sort of way. Proposing was the real thing, just like his love for her.

Drawing courage from a gulp of champagne, he said, "Heather, we've been together for six months now, and I..." He could feel sweat gathering in his armpits, beading on his brow, despite the cool June air.

Heather peered up at him, luscious in a strapless cobalt blue dress with her hair swirled up into a French twist. From her earlobes hung the diamond droplet earrings he'd given her for Valentine's Day, catching the yellowish glow of pool spotlights. Steam rose from the surface of the pool and blew toward them in wisps.

He inhaled a deep, empowering breath. "There's something I want to talk to you about. It's kind of important, and you don't have to answer me right away, but..." Fragments of the six proposals tumbled around in his brain like Scrabble tiles. _My life has never been the same since we met. You've made me more joyful, more inspired. Than ever before. Without you by my side. Can't picture the rest of my life. Love you with all my heart. More than words. Will you... would you do me the honour..._

A question materialized in Heather's sea-green eyes as the seconds ticked by. He watched her eyebrows rise ever so slightly, her lips part as though she were about to speak, and in an instant he knew, _knew_, that she knew what he was going to ask her.

She was waiting, the band members were waiting, he'd been waiting his whole life for a girl like her.

_Enough with all this waiting._

Dropping to one knee, hoping the ring box wouldn't slip from his fingers as he took it from the pocket of his pants, he opened the box, held it up.

"Heather Melora Symonds, will you marry me?" The words spilled out in a heart-pounding stream.

First he heard silence. Next he heard a sharp intake of breath, saw Heather's hands fly to her mouth.

And one beat later she squealed, "Yes, yes, of course, I'll marry you!"

He could have keeled over with dazed relief, but then she was hauling him to his feet, he was sliding the ring onto her finger — a perfect fit — and they were in each other's arms, her chin tucked into his shoulder, as he twirled her around, weightless with euphoria and the confirmed forever-ness of their love.

* * *

"Heather was over the moon, and as you can tell, she's still up there. Connor, you better take care of her — she means the world to me. Keep her happy, make her laugh, and don't let her fall." Peter held up the microphone and everyone who had a drink raised their glass. "To Heather and Connor!"

"To Heather and Connor!" echoed the guests.

After Peter's toast, Heather's friend Johanna Bahde said a few words, then Jackie and several others.

"OK, everyone, time for some house-keeping announcements," Simon said once he'd recovered possession of the microphone. "Traditionally a Jack and Jill party is held to help raise money for the bride and groom to pay for the wedding. But since Connor and Heather both have good jobs and Connor has a rich uncle, if they run over budget it's no big deal. Nonetheless, we do have a bunch of raffle prizes, including four complete series of _Debutante Debauchery_ — that's Parts 1 through 15 — generously donated by Woodman Studios, aka dear old Mom and Dad. So come get your tickets, because you know you want to. Entertainment will be here soon. Booze until then."

Laughter again. It was a running joke that Simon was finally old enough to get into his own events.

"And now, Simon says 'Party!' "

Cheers and whoops followed as techno-neo-rasta music flowed from the speakers overhead at a volume just low enough to allow for conversation. Guests began flocking to the bar for more drinks, and to Simon for raffle tickets.

Connor circulated the room with Heather, thanking friends for coming to the party and catching up with people he hadn't seen since graduation.

"Simon picked the perfect place, didn't he?" Heather asked, pausing by a window. She put her arm through his.

Connor had to agree. Melo Bar & Lounge lived up to its name — an airy space with white shiny surfaces and plush sofas arranged by banks of soaring bay windows. White party lights twinkled across the high ceilings, enhancing the mellow atmosphere, and the bay windows opened onto a spectacular view of the Los Angeles Basin. A totally different vibe from a Hollywood club where you went just to be scene. Well worth the drive up.

The sun was setting, bathing the city in a pink light. In August the sky would be periwinkle, golden in October, and gray throughout the winter months. Connor liked the fall skies best, after the scorching heat of summer had broken and the crowds of tourists had gone home. As he and Heather stood watching, the city took on a mystical glow, unmarred by the shroud of smog that had clogged its skies for decades and decades. On this July evening they could see all the way to the skyscrapers of downtown and beyond that a blue strip of ocean. Connor immediately picked out the blocky spire of the U.S. Bank Tower, home to the L.A. offices of Tipton Martin Venture Capital, a driving force in the widespread commercialization of green technology across California, and the rest of the country, over the last 15 years.

He sighed and looked at Heather instead. It was Saturday. He didn't want to think about work.

"The City of Angels," she said, smiling.

Connor drank in the sight of her — her lips alluringly red and kissable, hair transformed into a mass of ringlets, cleavage peeking out from the cowl neck of her little black dress. In the fading light, her porcelain skin, the result of a die-hard sunscreen routine, seemed even paler and more ethereal.

"Must be why I met you here," he said and kissed her nose. He loved its upturned tip. His dress pants grew tighter at the memory of her pouncing on him in her bed that morning.

The sparkle in Heather's eyes matched the diamond in her ring. A playful sparkle. "The City of Naughty Angels," she giggled, as though reading his thoughts. Then she stood on the toes of her black stilettos to kiss his lips, her tongue darting sensually into his mouth.

With concerted effort Connor disengaged from the kiss after a few moments of bliss, loath to foist gratuitous displays of public affection on their guests.

Heather pouted, but complied, wiping a smudge of lipstick from his mouth with her thumb.

"Thanks, angel." He fought the urge to keep kissing her, to hike up her dress and finger her G-string. There would be plenty of time for that later. Simon had chartered a bus to take everyone to a hotel for the night.

They resumed walking, arm in arm, until Connor spotted Farshad holding court at a table near the bar. "The cleantech sector totally saved us from going into a recession after the last market correction," he was saying to Peter, Jens, and a couple of guys who were exchanging bored looks. "It's like my mentor says, when you focus on growing companies instead of just making deals, you create a win-win situation."

Heather giggled again. "Still got the man crush?" she asked.

Connor nodded. "No signs of letting up."

* * *

_Two and a half hours ago..._

"The man is a visionary, a true oracle," Farshad proclaimed in the reverential tones of one who has had a spiritual experience. "It was absolutely the most illuminating meeting of my life."

"Dude, you had lunch with my uncle." Connor pulled open the car door and climbed in behind the wheel. "As in, he shared a bagel with you in a boardroom at work. It wasn't high tea with the Dalai Lama."

Farshad ignored this interpretation. "For a man like Cody Martin to take time out of his busy schedule to talk to me about why he founded TMVC, and his personal business philosophy, was incredibly affirming. He made me feel like a real team player, not just a lowly trainee."

"Uh huh," said Connor absently as he drove out of the parking garage below their apartment building in Westwood Village, close to campus. He'd been hearing variations of this rhapsody for the past 24 hours. To him, Cody Martin would always be his goofy uncle who carried around a gamma ray deflector in his pocket, waxed poetic about his unparalleled collection of art deco cocktail sticks, and got his butt kicked whenever he and Connor's dad played basketball together.

Farshad punched the location of Melo into the BMW's GPS. "Dude, you are going to love this place. The view is awesome." He was riding shotgun tonight because his own Mitsubishi was at a custom shop getting spinner hubcaps and a solar panel on the rear wing.

Navigating the dense weekend traffic on Sunset Boulevard, Connor could still hardly believe the sleek gunmetal grey roadster, powered by a rechargeable lithium-ion battery, was actually his. "You didn't have to do this," he'd said when Uncle Cody presented it to him the day after graduation. "I'm sure you helped enough with paying for my degree."

Uncle Cody's reply had, as a Brit might say, gob-smacked him. "Actually, no. Your parents paid for everything themselves. I offered to help out, but they refused every time."

They'd remortgaged the house, Connor had supposed, thinking guiltily of the four-bedroom ranch house on a leafy suburban street in Dallas. His bedroom belonged to Kieran now that Shi and Mel no longer shared a room. Not that it mattered. He and Heather would soon be apartment hunting all over the Westside. And the car, he reasoned, had probably been a freebie from a client.

"He's a post-modern, post-capitalist hero, the living embodiment of applying wealth to a higher purpose," Farshad raved on. "But he's not perfect. Like any great man, he's had his share of demons to conquer. There came a point when he had to lift off the blinders and truly see. He told me that after everything that happened to your dad, he couldn't even look at himself in the mirror. He was off work for almost a year, dealing with his guilt over being part of a bloody-thirsty, resource-plundering monolith that destroyed lives as much as any war or natural disaster."

"What do you mean 'after everything that happened to my dad'?" Connor asked uncomfortably. They had stopped behind a truck.

"I don't know, he didn't say." Farshad shrugged, checking his reflection in the side view mirror. "But he did say that he realized the peace foundation could never make the impact he wanted, and that he needed a bigger catalyst to bring about positive change in the world. Plus, he knew Old Man Tipton was using him to refurbish Tipton Industries' image after the chemical weapons scandal. And that's why he decided to leave his senior vice president job at TMI to found TMVC. To build a venture capital firm dedicated to making a better future for the planet and all of its citizens. To prove ultimately that wealth doesn't have to breed destruction, conflict, and selfishness."

"Dude," Connor said, shaking his head, "just admit it. You want the six houses and the Jaguar just like him."

They were rolling again. Farshad turned his head to stare, as though Connor had just announced he was running off to join a neo-hippie commune in Utah. "He _needs_ those six houses, for all those kids."

"That's just because my Auntie London wants them to be Brangelina 2.0." Connor would need to consult a tabloid website to verify how many Tipton-Martin cousins he had, but at last count there were eight: Stella and Greydon, Uncle Cody and Auntie London's biological children, plus Abeki from Nigeria, Tamasha from Kenya, Quang from Vietnam, Tak-Sin from Thailand, Fortunato from El Salvador, and Fancy Feather from a Native American reserve. The family's main residence was still the Tipton Hotel in Boston, where TMVC was headquartered, but they travelled a lot.

"Speaking of babies," Farshad said in a different tone, slapping his hand on the dashboard. "you better make use of this one while you can. Before you know it, you'll be trading it in for a real baby and an SUV that you'll be driving to work from some dump in the Valley. Or worse, taking public transit, just to save time." He shuddered and sat back in his seat, arms folded.

Connor gritted his teeth as they hit another traffic snarl and wondered how long the drive to Melo would take.

* * *

Peter grabbed Simon's arm as he swaggered by with his roll of raffle tickets. "How much longer until the entertainment gets here?" he asked, casting a sideways glance at Farshad, a note of pain in his voice.

"Not long." Simon clapped a hand on Farshad's back. "Dude, you are not going to believe the stripper I got. Easy Lee is _smokin_'. To Peter and Jens, he added, "Don't worry, I got someone for you guys, too. Simon Says Party is an all-inclusive event planning company."

"Good to know," said Jens, an actor whose Portuguese accent had landed him roles in several popular Latin American movies, and plenty of affirmation that guys also dug accents.

"In that case," said Peter, "enough with the techno-neo-rasta crap. Put on some real music."

"I'll see what I can do," Simon replied in his customer-is-always-right voice and headed to the DJ booth.

A couple of minutes later, the techno music was replaced with U2's "City of Blinding Lights," one of Connor's favourite oldies.

"Oooh, I love this song." Heather swivelled her hips to the distinctive build-up of guitars and piano notes. As guests paired off to dance, she leaned into his chest and he hooked his arms around her waist.

Looking over Heather's head, Connor felt his gaze shift back to the bank tower. Friday, December 22 — the last day of TMVC's six-month associate trainee program — bore down on him like the headlamp of an oncoming train. He hadn't expected to face another cliff so soon after graduating. To continue employment at TMVC after that date, he would have to earn an accounting certificate, or preferably an MBA. TMVC would foot the tuition bill, and he would move up to full-fledged associate. By the end of their first week, Farshad had already constructed an elaborate spreadsheet comparing the MBA programs at UCLA, USC, and Stanford. Connor, on the other hand, had still been choking on the realization that he wasn't feeling the Joy of Spreadsheets.

_The more you see, the less you know  
The less you find out as you go  
I knew much more then than I do now_

Last year, their summer jobs at TMVC had meant data entry, filing, and fetching coffee — a means to affording rent on an apartment off-campus. Being an associate trainee meant staring at rows and columns of numbers parading across his monitor screen, interspersed with the occasional line graph or pie chart. Each number contributed to the financial picture of an electric battery developer, a wind turbine manufacturer, a biofuel producer, or an industrial waste recycler from among the thousands of cleantech start-ups vying for a coveted spot in TMVC's portfolio. When the numbers added up, he recommended the company to an associate for further research. And when they didn't add up, well, it sucked to be that company. As the founding partner's nephew, Connor knew he had more clout than any of other trainees. If he felt strongly enough about a company's potential, somebody would listen. Nevertheless, he asked himself on a too-regular basis, who was he — a grad fresh out of college — to stomp on the aspirations of some engineer or entrepreneur whose lofty dreams had been distilled into a conglomeration of spreadsheet cells and data points?

_Neon heart day-glow eyes  
A city lit by fireflies  
They're advertising in the skies  
For people like us_

It's just part of the job, his dad had said, when Connor reluctantly brought this up. Like soldiers having to kill people, Connor assumed. Unfortunate, but sometimes necessary. An inability to reconcile this paradox had stopped him from signing up for the ROTC's Advanced Course. The other reason, the one he'd told his dad, was that he hadn't felt ready to commit to eight years of military service, even as a reservist. But above all, and he couldn't argue himself out of feeling this way, he didn't want a job that was linked to killing people. Terrorists had moms, too — even though those moms sent their kids for training as suicide bombers. Another paradox.

However, and this could _not_ be argued, working at TMVC was vastly better than toiling in retail drudgery, which many of his fellow Poli Sci grads were doing back in their hometowns. And it paid considerably better. More than considerably.

_And I miss you when you're not around  
I'm getting ready to leave the ground_

Heather, now an assistant publicist at an entertainment PR firm, had her own busy schedule. On nights when she was free, he looked forward to seeing her, his reward for eight hours in a cubicle. On nights when she had to work an event, and could get him onto the VIP list, he made do with stealing kisses while she and Peter scurried about putting out fires, figuratively and sometimes literally. They made a great team, he noted.

_Oh you look so beautiful tonight  
In the city of blinding lights_

Connor tightened his arms around Heather, squeezing a handful of the slinky fabric of her dress, as the chorus pulsed through the room. The sky had become a dusky purple, L.A. a patchwork of glitter once again.

_Don't look before you laugh  
Look ugly in a photograph  
Flash bulbs purple irises  
The camera can't see_

The rest of the time at Hollywood parties he laughed at the circus of tantrum-throwing reality TV stars, entourage-toting B-listers, strung-out starlets, and all the other hangers-on, has-beens, and never-weres who made up the fabric of Hollywood parties, and always outnumbered the egomaniacal A-listers and mercenary studio heads who showed up to put in an appearance. He never minded being on the outside looking in. Jens often showed up, too, either as an invitee, or an extra like himself. He and Heather would snicker when Peter and Jens disappeared for extended periods.

_I've seen you walk unafraid  
I've seen you in the clothes you made  
Can you see the beauty inside of me?  
What happened to the beauty I had inside of me?_

Peter and Jens, who had been dating for two years, were dancing nearby, locked in each other's arms.

Heather glanced at them adoringly. "They are _such_ a cute couple." She made a sour face. "But I hope Johanna knows what she's getting herself into."

Farshad was dancing with two girls. Johanna was one of them. The rabid American Dreamer flashed a discreet smirk at Connor and waggled his eyebrows.

_And I miss you when you're not around  
I'm getting ready to leave the ground_

Connor returned the smirk with an eye roll. Some things would never change. Or would they? By December 22, he would have paid back the $8,000 he'd borrowed from Uncle Cody to buy Heather's engagement ring. Uncle Cody had told him not to worry about it, but Connor had arranged with Accounting to have a portion of his biweekly paycheque directed to paying off the loan. If he didn't stay on at TMVC, though, what would he do instead? He'd always imagined he would to go to grad school. But for what? Law? International relations? Urban planning? Unless he had a solid idea of what he wanted to do, grad school could be a very expensive whim.

_Oh you look so beautiful tonight  
In the city of blinding lights_

Heather sang along in her sweet, clear voice. She swung her head from side to side, curls bobbing on her slender shoulders.

Connor spun her away from him and she caught hold of Peter's hand. He pulled her to him, then sent her twirling back to Connor.

_Time... time... time... time... time  
Won't leave me as I am  
But time won't take the boy out of this man_

There were also wedding costs to think about. They hadn't set a date yet, but Heather wanted to be a spring bride and carry a bouquet of white tulips. With her sister starting college in September, she had qualms about asking her parents for money. And Connor couldn't ask his parents to contribute.

Especially not after a certain conversation.

* * *

_One week ago..._

"I can't believe you!" Connor yelled into the phone. Both his hand and his voice were shaking. "How could you even suggest such a thing?"

"I'm just saying," Dad repeated. "A prenuptial agreement is a good idea, just in case Heather turns out be a gold-digger."

His matter-of-fact tone infuriated Connor. "Heather isn't like that," he fired back, unable to control his voice. "She loves me for who I am, not because of who I'm related to or where I work."

Dad sighed. "Look, Connor, I'm not saying she doesn't, but the reality is, you've only known her for a few months."

"Did you and Mom have a prenuptial agreement?" Connor challenged.

"No, but that was a completely different situation."

"How so? Uncle Cody was already rolling in it when you and Mom got married."

"True, but we'd known each other for over 10 years at that point, and we'd already had you, and if your mom had wanted your uncle's money, she could have showed up at any time before that looking for some, but she didn't." Dad paused for a few seconds as though to let these details sink into Connor's stubborn, naïve head. "Can you say that about Heather? She's a nice girl and all, but how well do you really know her?"

"You know what, Dad? Fuck you." Connor had never sworn at his dad before and regretted it instantly, but couldn't restrain the red-hot anger that was tensing all his muscles. "I don't have to listen to this crap."

Another sigh. "Connor, don't be like that."

"Bye, Dad."

_Click.

* * *

_

_Oh you look so beautiful tonight  
Oh you look so beautiful tonight  
Oh you look so beautiful tonight  
In the city of blinding lights_

His dad had called to apologize the next day, very obviously put up to the task by his mom. Connor had grudgingly accepted the apology and agreed to at least broach the subject with Heather.

The best strategy, he'd decided, would be to blame the whole thing on his family and tell her that if she didn't sign an agreement, he would be written out of his uncle's will and inherit nothing. Theoretically, whatever response she gave would scream volumes about her true intentions. He hadn't found the right time yet for this discussion. He didn't know if he ever would. Nor had he mentioned it to Farshad. No need to give Farshad extra ammunition for his anti-marriage spiel.

_The more you know the less you feel  
Some pray for others steal  
Blessings are not just for the ones who kneel... luckily_

The song was waning, and Heather stood on her toes again. "Hey, I have to go to the bathroom," she murmured just below his ear.

"Oh, OK." Connor said. He loosened his grip on her.

She responded by taking his hand and tugging it. "Aren't you coming?" she asked slyly from underneath her rumpled bangs.

A lightbulb flicked on. Connor blinked.

"Ohhhhh." He felt his lips turning up into a slow grin.

* * *

**A/N: ****What do you think — is Zack out of line? Send me your thoughts, because I love them. Thanks for reading & much love. Xoxoxo – Ellie**

**For readers of R2, Cody's backstory in this chapter builds on his emotional distress in Chapter 26 "Doing the Right Thing" and subsequent decision to take time off work to re-evaluate his life. His interest in vintage cocktail sticks surfaced in Chapter 14 "Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend." The fall of Tipton Industries was detailed in R1 Chapter 9 "Frozen Assets."**


	6. It's Our Party

**A/N: Happy belated Canada Day to my Canadian readers, and an early Happy Fourth of July to my American readers. And Happy FF Anniversary to me, since yesterday also marked one year since I posted the prologue of **_**Just One of the Guys**_** :) Thanks for a great year!**

**This chapter is named after the 1963 Lesley Gore pop hit "It's My Party" ("****It's my party and I'll cry if I want to, cry if I want to, cry if I want to"). ****Bonus points if you can spot the "Goin' Bananas" reference.**

**Thanks as always to Waldojeffers for going above and beyond as a beta-reader.

* * *

**

**Chapter 6: "It's Our Party and We'll Screw if We Want To"

* * *

**

_The two of us tonight we can make it last forever  
We're in the neon lights, it's just you and me together  
Hollywood is the time the stars are shining  
For you and me tonight, in this city  
Where dreams are made of, where dreams are made of_

_Jonas Brothers, L.A. Baby (Where Dreams Are Made Of)_

[-]

Heather pushed Connor into a stall in the ladies' room, tonguing him ferociously, in a way that reminded him of their second date. More specifically, of what had happened _after_ the date.

Date number two — dinner and a movie — had ended innocently enough, with Connor standing in the doorway of Heather's studio apartment, one hand on the doorknob, the other lost in her hair.

"Well, I should go," he said.

Heather hugged him tighter. "Yeah, you should," she agreed, licking the inside of his mouth. The kiss that had begun five minutes ago continued to gain in ardour and stamina. Connor had never experienced such a passionate kiss. It surpassed even their first kiss, when surprise had meshed with instinct like spirits mixing in an alchemists' cauldron to produce something intoxicating and other-worldly. Now instinct was taking over. But he was a Southern gentleman, and couldn't forget that.

"Good night," he said wistfully, letting her hair slip through his fingers. "I'll call you tomorrow." And he knew he would. None of that evasive "I'll call you" bullshit with Heather. Quite the opposite. In fact, since meeting her he'd practically had to sit on his hands to stop himself from calling her 20 times a day just to hear her voice. Playing _Call of Duty 18: Modern Black Ops 5_ with Farshad helped.

"You better," she mumbled, still lunging for his tonsils.

"OK, good night." He twisted the doorknob, then let go to twine both hands into her hair — one last caress to tide him over until their third date, which would begin in just under 72 hours.

Heather drew in a shuddery breath. "Good night, Connor," she whispered to the space between their faces. Her hands meandered on his chest.

One final kiss. Just one. And then he would go. "Good ni–"

Heather jumped up, wrapping her legs around his waist, and deducing from this move permission to find somewhere more comfortable — dare he think it, somewhere more horizontal? — he took one step toward her sofa and tripped on a shoelace. As they tumbled to the floor, Connor tried to act as a buffer so that she would land on top of him. She did. Their eyes met again, held each other's gaze, both of them silent.

And then clothes had been ripped off, his sweater, her dress, his jeans, and Heather had dug a condom out of her purse, the excitement of bringing their bodies together overriding any first-time jitters.

"I promised myself I would hold out until the third date to sleep with you," Heather confessed when they lay sated and panting in each other's arms. "Better yet, the fourth date."

"Don't worry, I'll still respect you in the morning," he reassured her, flinching a little from rug burn. His butt was severely chafed in spots, but he didn't mind a bit.

The last thought he remembered having before they dozed off, still cuddled on the floor, was that he'd come a long way since his first appointment with Dr. Raj Wolowitz.

In every sense.

* * *

_Three and a half years ago..._

Dr. Raj Wolowitz, certified psychotherapist, emitted an infrequent "Mmmmm hmmm" as Connor related the string of horrors that constituted That Night. The psychotherapist sat on a large plush armchair next to an oakwood desk, jotting notes on a tablet with an electronic pen, his jowly face a mask of concentration. The wall of framed degrees behind him suggested that each "Mmmmm hmmm" signified the gleaning of a profound and meaningful insight.

Listening to himself talk from the depths of an armchair that matched Dr. Wolowitz's, Connor was keenly aware of how bland his voice sounded. No doubt Dr. Wolowitz recognized the monotone for the defense mechanism it was. An attempt to will every vestige of That Night into non-existence, like diving headlong into his courses and avoiding the top floor of his residence hall, where Louise lived. If he hadn't anticipated Farshad confronting him about an elevator phobia, he would have stuck to taking the stairs, too.

He was also glad he'd opted to sit in the armchair. Lying on Dr. Wolowitz's couch would have felt too bizarre. Too Freudian.

"I see," said Dr. Wolowitz when Connor had finished. His bushy eyebrows merged like a giant caterpillar wriggling above his eye sockets. "But only figuratively of course, because I can honestly say that I have never seen this particular video, and speaking man to man, I'm sorry you had to see it."

Connor nodded appreciatively. No man on Earth could want to see his parents do such things.

"Typically, when an individual has experienced a traumatic event, I recommend a course of prolonged exposure therapy, where the individual relives the event, imagining it detail by detail no matter how excruciating, until the anxiety and fear subside." The psychotherapist put his pen on the desk. His index fingers steepled. "But for you, Connor," he said in a slightly altered tone, "I'm not going to recommend that."

Connor sagged against the back of the armchair. "Thank you, sir." _How would reliving trauma even be beneficial? Wouldn't it just cause more pain and suffering?_

Dr. Wolowitz leaned forward to regard Connor with his deep-set black eyes, tapping his index fingers. "What I _am_ going to recommend is that you rent some conventional adult videos featuring well-known actors and actresses. Watch them until you feel enjoyably aroused, so that your fear doesn't rule you."

Connor swallowed. "OK, that sounds doable."

"And if you wish, you can choose to consider your parents' performance in this video as a sign that they have a healthy, adventurous sex life, which can be the foundation of a long-lasting marriage."

"Um, I'll try." _Nothing wrong with a long-lasting marriage. Nope, nothing at all. Not with a 50 percent divorce rate. Something to keep in mind.

* * *

_

Having the dorm room to himself over the Christmas holiday had made Dr. Wolowitz's prescription easier to accommodate and gradually Connor felt comfortable taking matters into his own hands. By happy coincidence, he even met a freshman named Trina who, like him, had stayed on campus for the holiday and on New Year's Day, bolstered by a visit to Venice Beach and a couple of beers in her dorm room, he'd lost his virginity to her. While it had been the first time for both of them, their bodies had known what to do — another instance of instinct taking the lead — and Connor had been thoroughly grateful to get it up, and get it over with.

Upon reporting his devirginization to Dr. Wolowitz at his third appointment, the psychotherapist had decided that he didn't need any more sessions, that he was making good progress toward getting over That Night, and that he was adjusting well to college and to being away from home. Connor had thanked him profusely and considered himself "cured."

Dr. Wolowitz had also advised him not to stress too much about the future and deciding on a career. "I used to be an engineer," he confided just before Connor left his office.

On a less happy note, the holiday-exile bond with Trina had fizzled once second quarter began, and until reconnecting with a much-less-uptight Misti the summer after freshman year, Connor's track record had been limited to a scattering of flirtations and flings. While sex with Misti, whose body he already knew, had quickly progressed from clumsy to satisfying, a tremendous confidence and ego boost, the relationship had stayed seasonal due to their living on opposite coasts. Thus, until Heather, there had been no permanent roles, no long-term offers.

But that was OK. Heather's zest, her voracious appetite for him, their compatibility and love for each other, made up for his extended virginity and a sexual resume that consisted mainly of temp and contract positions.

_You just gotta have faith._ There was a reason why radio stations kept the 1987 George Michael hit in daily rotation.

[***]

Heather continued tonguing him ferociously in the corner of a bathroom stall at Melo. "I want you," she insisted. "_Now_."

To Connor there was a big difference between sneaking off to have sex in a remote bathroom at a Hollywood party packed with strangers — which they did occasionally — and doing it in a bathroom stall with 50 of their closest friends in the next room. Fun and exciting in theory. Daunting and nerve-wracking in practice. A little too nerve-wracking, he soon realized, but he didn't want to admit to this as he kissed Heather and grabbed handfuls of her hair.

She broke away from him to hang her wristlet purse on the coat hook and leaned over the toilet, one knee tucked on the closed seat. Angling her neck to gaze at him, she said, "Come on, take me." Then she slid her dress up to her waist.

Connor's knees jellied at the uncovering of her round, perky butt cheeks separated by the teeny strand of her black G-string. The very G-string he'd fantasized about on the dance floor. With her hair tangling in her eyes, back arched in a decidedly feline manner, feet in stilettos, Heather was the picture of wanton desire.

"Just a quickie." She grinned.

He unbuttoned his pants and lowered his boxers. "What if somebody walks in?" he asked more anxiously than he would have liked to. "What if they..." — he winced — "what if they hear us?" Heather had certain loud tendencies. Normally a huge turn-on, but also the reason he sought the remotest of bathrooms at parties.

Heather lifted her shoulders nonchalantly. "It's our party, and we'll screw if we want to."

_Good point. Can't argue with that._

She wiggled her butt cheeks, and he rubbed up against them. Now that she was on the pill, they didn't need to use condoms anymore. Which would shave at least 30 seconds off a quickie.

"Hurry up," she urged after a few moments of contact. "Are you ready?"

"Um, not quite," he divulged, shame-faced, looking down at his semi-uncooperative appendage. _Stalled in the stall. Just great._

Heather shifted to perch on the edge of the toilet seat. "I know what you need..." Her voice sizzled with jazz-singer sultriness.

She began to hum. "It's our party, and we'll screw if we want to," she sang softly. Her tongue skittered on the tip of his penis. "Screw if..." She enclosed his fledgling erection in her mouth. "We want to." The words muddled. "Screw if we want to."

Blood swirled from his head and limbs to his most sensitive nerve endings. He held onto the coat hook just to stay upright, his other hand snaking into her hair. "You are _so_ good at this," he sighed.

"Thanks," she mumbled.

He cradled her head as her mouth and hands worked in glorious, impressive tandem, hardening him, setting off fireworks in his gut that dissipated any remaining inhibitions.

Suddenly Heather stood and placed a stiletto-shod foot on the seat. "Feel me, I'm so wet," she murmured. She stroked him between her legs, lingering on the swell of her clit.

A groan pushed up from Connor's belly. "Come here," he said huskily, hoisting her in his arms. She clasped hers around his neck and circled him with her legs, her dress bunching at her waist. Her stilettos clattered to the floor as her feet locked to the small of his back.

They both gasped when he entered her. Heather was so tiny and light, so easy to make love to, lean and nubile from dancing ballet until she was 17 yet with curves in all the requisite, eye-catching places.

They kissed until erratic breathing forced them apart. She mesmerized him, utterly mesmerized him, her nipples poking through the front of her dress like marbles — nipples he would have licked and fondled and kissed if he hadn't had to hold her so precisely, giving her room to arch as he moved deep inside her, but not so much that she would hit her head on the wall. Her right hand held the coat hook for stability, her left hand grasped the nape of his neck, fingers digging in above his collarbone. Heat from her pulse points infused the stall with her signature flowery scent.

He had to watch her, couldn't close his eyes even for a second. He saw her knuckles go white. Her eyes, glazed and heavy lidded, roll back. Fall shut. Mouth open as she buckled into him.

Heather's release rippled through her in waves, his own coming on, building with the juddering of her hips against his and the twitching and tightening of her thigh muscles.

"Connor, Connor," she moaned between staccato breaths.

The prideful thrill hit him like it always did. He satisfied her. He was what she wanted.

Connor cupped his hands under her thighs, bracing for the first spasm. When it came, it made his knees wobble, his stomach dip.

"Heather, oh Heather, oh–"

They were convulsing together, Heather's mouth pressed to the side of his neck, needles of pain shooting where her teeth sank in, and he was spilling himself into her, too overwhelmingly aroused to care about the noise of their cries mingling as they filled up the bathroom to the ceiling.

He kept hold of her as they shared each other's aftershocks. Basking in the hollowed-out feeling in his head and the weight of her in his arms. Unable to break their embrace.

"I love you, Connor," she said, their foreheads touching, her voice thick with emotion.

He tucked a stray curl behind her ear and planted a kiss on her forehead. "I love you, too."

She kissed his neck tenderly. "Sorry I bit you. I was trying to be quiet." Her face dropped to his shoulder.

"S'OK," he murmured into her hair.

Her nipples were still taut under her flimsy dress, her heart drumming in time with his. _She loves me for real. She does. Forever and always. She won't care if I walk away from a lucrative career path at TMVC or get dumped from Uncle Cody's will. Dad is wrong about her, he has to be._

"I love you," he whispered again, "Heather Melora Symonds."

Heather raised her head and smiled. "Soon to be Heather Melora Pickett-Martin," she said, laying a hand on his cheek.

Launching into another lengthy kiss would have been nice, but Connor abandoned the thought when he read a different one in her eyes.

_Time to get back to the party._

"Everyone's going to know we did it," he said while they stood at the mirror so that Heather could reapply her lipstick. As their flushed reflections indicated, they both had sex hair. Or, to use an expression his mom had learned from her grandmother, they looked like they'd been pulled through a bush backwards.

Heather blotted her lipstick on a paper towel. "So?" she asked, flashing a brazen wink. She ran her hands under the faucet, then began to smooth certain sections of her hair and fluff others.

"We don't have to go back in there," he broached as the idea formed. "I've only had one drink. We could sneak out and go straight to the hotel, or anywhere you want. Santa Barbara, Palm Springs, Mexico." His brain awakened further from its post-coital fog to fixate on images of the two of them in a bouncy king-sized hotel bed, somewhere miles and miles away. Next to a beach. In the middle of the desert. Across the border.

"Seriously?" She cocked her head to one side, and he knew she was considering it.

He nodded, checking his watch. "It isn't even nine o'clock. If we leave now and drive at the speed limit, I could get us to Baja before midnight. We could have a real vacation."

Heather chewed her freshly lipsticked lower lip. "I don't know..."

"Come on," he wheedled, lacing her fingers through his.

"Next weekend," she said with a rueful smile. "You know I love it when you're adventurous, but it _is_ our party, and it would be rude to just take off on all our friends. Besides, aren't you the least bit curious to see what entertainment Simon has lined up?"

"OK, next weekend," he relented. "And about the entertainment, no, not really."

Heather dampened her hands again and reached up to de-sexify his hair. Then she stood on her toes for a peck on the lips. "See you out there," she said sweetly.

After glancing at her reflection one more time and fluffing a few more curls, she headed for the door, heels clicking on the tile floor.

Connor waited exactly three minutes, then squared his shoulders and made his own exit.

Farshad and Simon intercepted him as he rounded the bar. They traded looks of knowing amusement.

"There you are, Connor, you sly dog," chuckled Simon. "Come meet the entertainment."

Risers had been set up during the bathroom interlude. Melo was now divided in half, and there was a stage along the far wall and another stage along the wall nearest the bar. He saw Heather in the far area surrounded by girls. Peter and Jens were with them. The rest of the guys were milling by the bar, many stocking up on drinks as if last call was approaching.

"Girls and gays over there," Simon said, pointing. "We're over here with Easy Lee." He gave another chuckle. "You know why they call her Easy Lee? 'Cause it all goes in easily, if you know what I mean."

"She does look familiar," Farshad remarked, brow crinkling.

"Dude, _all_ girls look familiar to you," Connor ribbed him. "You even thought Heather looked familiar when you met her."

A very curvaceous brunette sashayed up to them, dressed like a cheerleader. She wore a skimpy red bra top and a flouncy pleated miniskirt in the same fire-engine red. Emblazoned across her chest was the word "VARSITY" in white letters. In each hand she held a red and gold pom pom, and her long hair was fastened into two pigtails, tied with red ribbons. But unlike a "regular" cheerleader, on her feet she wore pointy-heeled black sneaker boots and white socks that stretched up to her knees.

Her eyes, smoky with eyeliner and glistening plum-coloured eyeshadow, lit up like brown spotlights and she kicked a leg high, her foot landing neatly on Connor's left shoulder. "You must be the lucky guy," she purred through pink, pillowy lips, dusting his head with a pom-pom.

A clammy chill passed through Connor, then engulfed him whole. His stomach lining curdled. He swallowed a jolt of nausea. A vampire might as well have stuck a straw into a bite mark on his neck and sucked out all his blood, leaving him cold and dumb and on the brink of death.

For at that moment he did not feel like the lucky guy. Far from it. He felt like the guy whose luck had skipped town — just like he should have when he'd had the chance to, only minutes ago.

Because he recognized the stripper, too. Only he knew her by a different name.

Louise. Louise Linett.

_Oh no...

* * *

_

**A/N: *Now* does the time skip make sense? **

**Please read and review, dear readers, and love to all of you. Thanks again for an awesome FF year! :) Xoxoxo – Ellie**

**For readers of R2, prolonged exposure therapy is the same treatment Zack received at the VA hospital, mentioned in Chapter 29 "Saved By the BlackBerry." It's considered to be one of the most effective treatments for post-traumatic stress disorder (but debate continues). Bailey's Grammy's "pulled through a bush backwards" expression was also used in Chapter 12 "You Forgot Your Pants!" of JOotG, just prior to Mr. Moseby's loss of pants.**


	7. Mr Latex is My Personal Hero

**A/N: Big thanks for the reviews and props to everyone who recognized the "Goin' Bananas" reference in Chapter 6, which was Mr. Blanket's line "I see, but only figuratively of course" as spoken by Dr. Raj Wolowitz (a shout-out to **_**Big Bang Theory**_**, one of my other favourite TV shows). I wish I had real bonus points to award because you guys deserve them! And now, on with the story… **

**The CP/BF has a fiction-writing policy that a story element should be incorporated only if it will appear more than once. In keeping with this policy, why introduce a spunky character in Chapter 1 and not use her again? [Evil grin inserted here.] Same goes for the theme of heroes that began in R2, but only in a tongue-in-cheek context in this chapter.  
**

**OC Update  
Louise Linett/Easy Lee — Megan Fox OR Tiffani Thiessen (circa **_**Beverly Hills, 90120**_**); it's a toss-up, so whichever works for you.**

**Thank-you again to Waldojeffers, über-beta-reader.

* * *

**

**Chapter 7: "Mr. Latex is My Personal Hero"

* * *

**

Connor heard a whooshing sound. It was the sound of four years flying by, transporting him back to the third night of Frosh Week. To the first time he'd met the girl who was posed in front of him with her foot on his shoulder, giving him an unobstructed view of her tiny red thong...

_"My name is Louise Linett. I'm a sophomore, from Seattle. Majoring in art history. I'm allergic to cats. I like finger-painting, long walks on the beach, and corrupting cute, innocent freshmen like you."_

To when he'd been an 18-year-old virgin with a raging hard-on, moments away from becoming a man...

_"Well, then let's slow things down a bit. We haven't got to the main event." _

To when the unthinkable had happened...

_Oblivious to Connor's distress, the man let go of the woman's right pigtail and began to slap her butt. With each slap, the birthmark jiggled and Connor's heart skipped a horrified beat._

_They were his parents. Mr. and Mrs. Latex were his _parents_._

That Night.

"So are you the lucky guy or what?" the stripper repeated.

Connor gulped, mouth dry as dust. Of all the strippers in L.A., Simon had hired Louise Linett to perform at his and Heather's Jack and Jill party. _Please don't recognize me. Please don't recognize me. Please don't recognize me._

Simon took charge of the situation.

To Louise/Easy Lee, he replied, "Yeah, he's the lucky one. Why don't you go finish getting ready for your show?"

With a shrug, she removed her foot and flounced to a curtained spot next to the stage.

To Connor, he said in an aggrieved voice, "What's the deal, dude? I figured a cheerleader would be perfect for you. I could have gotten you a French maid, a schoolgirl, a nurse, a pirate. Hell, I could have gotten you a sexy Abraham Lincoln if you'd wanted."

"You should have gotten them _all_," Farshad interjected. "Why choose?"

The flight or flight impulse was taking root, as it had That Night. Grabbing Heather and making a run for it seemed like the smartest course of action. But Heather was on the other side of Melo, far beyond reach, looking like she was having the time of her life. Sitting on Peter's shoulders, she was clapping her hands above her head to the poppy strains of "It's Raining Men" while a uniformed police officer cavorted on-stage.

"That's Dusty Rider," Simon said, following Connor's gaze.

Connor then glanced around at the 20 or so guys seated on sofas and chairs, their eager expressions ranging from tipsy to outright drunk. Guys who'd waited through almost two hours of speeches, music, and drinks for the entertainment — the highlight of the evening.

"It's all good," he conceded, manufacturing a grin. "Thanks, Simon. Let's uh, let's get this show started."

_Because the sooner it starts, the sooner it will be over._

Simon steered Connor to a chair right in front of the stage. "Here's your seat of honour."

As he sat down, Connor gave himself a pep talk. Louise had showed no inkling that she recognized him. He hadn't seen her since That Night and given that she'd become a stripper — an occupation that, to be honest, didn't seem entirely out of character — she must have seen loads of males. Why should he, a generic 20-something guy with blond hair and blue eyes, stand out? Guys like him were a dime a dozen. Not to mention, That Night was probably not a night Louise wanted to remember, either. At least not the part of it that featured him. He just had to hope she wouldn't recognize Farshad.

Simon stepped onto the stage, carrying his microphone. "And now, without further ado," he announced with a dramatic flourish of his hand, "here she is, Miss Easy Lee!"

_Step inside, walk this way  
You and me babe, hey hey!_

From the speakers blasted the opening drumbeats and guitar riffs of that oldest of rock oldies, Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar On Me."

Louise burst through the curtain in her cheerleader garb, kicking up her legs and brandishing her pom-poms.

While the group greeted her with whistles and cheers, Connor stole a glance at his watch. It was 9:00. If the party wrapped up by midnight, in true L.A. fashion, he could still take Heather to Santa Barbara or Palm Springs. After this ugly turn of events, he _needed_ a vacation. Depending on how Louise's show unfolded, he wasn't above faking a sudden attack of food poisoning.

_Love is like a bomb, baby, c'mon get it on  
Livin' like a lover with a radar phone  
Lookin' like a tramp, like a video vamp_  
_Demolition woman, can I be your man?  
Your man _

Louise pranced across the stage, swinging and rolling her hips, exuding good-girl-gone-bad sensuality.

_Razzle 'n' a dazzle 'n' a flash a little light  
Television lover, baby, go all night  
Sometime, anytime, sugar me sweet  
Little miss ah innocent sugar me, yeah_

Stepping into a wide stance, she twisted and swayed as if a hula hoop were spinning around her waist. Slowly, sinuously she squatted with her right hip and then her left to put her pom-poms on the stage.

_Hey!  
C'mon, take a bottle, shake it up  
Break the bubble, break it up_

When she thrust up again, she wriggled out of her red "VARSITY" bra top, sliding it down her torso and over her hips and legs. Underneath she wore a smaller red bra that likely wouldn't stay on for much longer. Connor had been to a couple of strip clubs with Farshad and Simon last summer. As such, he knew the drill.

_Pour some sugar on me  
Ooh, in the name of love  
Pour some sugar on me  
C'mon fire me up  
Pour your sugar on me  
Oh, I can't get enough_

Louise slithered her hands over her breasts and torso, then hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her skirt, rotating her hips. She pursed her lips to blow kisses, and the cheers escalated.

_I'm hot, sticky sweet  
From my head to my feet yeah_

As the guitar riffs revved up for the second verse, Connor felt his cramped neck muscles start to relax, just a tiny bit. Louise was immersed in her act, probably the same routine she performed for every nameless, faceless crowd of bachelor party attendees or strip club patrons who watched her perform. After this song, she would do one or two others, and then Simon would announce the raffle winners.

But Connor would have to miss all that. What a shame. Not. As soon as the Def Leppard song hit its dying notes, he would come down with food poisoning, after which he and Heather would beat a hasty retreat. While the guys were succumbing to Louise's wiles — and the girls to Dusty's, if the cat-calls and whoops emanating from their side of Melo were anything to go by — he was succumbing to the siren call of the freeway. He couldn't wait to get onto it, just him and Heather, the two of them alone together for the rest of the weekend, L.A. receding into the night and the open road unrolling ahead of them, a sanctuary of its own.

_Listen! red light, yellow light, green-a-light go!  
Crazy little woman in a one man show  
Mirror queen, mannequin, rhythm of love_  
_Sweet dream, saccharine, loosen up  
I loosen up  
_

On the next riff, one hand disappeared behind Louise's back, and a moment later she'd torn off her skirt and flung it directly onto Connor's head, inciting hollers of "Yeah, Connor!"

His neck muscles re-constricted. _Shit, now she knows my name._ Gingerly he picked off the skirt, hoping that "Connor" would twig no memories. And that Louise would select a different target for her bra.

_You gotta squeeze a little, squeeze a little  
Tease a little more  
Easy operator come a knockin' on my door  
Sometime, anytime, sugar me sweet_  
_Little miss innocent sugar me, yeah  
Give a little more  
_

As if on cue, Louise gave a little more and unhooked her bra, squeezing and teasing by unveiling her breasts, one by voluptuous one. Clapping and hooting ensued. But instead of throwing her bra into the group, she kept it dangling from her fingers.

_Take a bottle, shake it up  
Break the bubble, break it up  
_

Clad in her thong, socks, and sneaker boots, Louise stepped off the stage to prowl among the sofas and chairs where the guys respectfully kept their hands to themselves as she strutted and kicked and paused every few steps to lift her feet onto armrests.

Each time she neared Connor, a tremor of fear raced down his spine. _Don't recognize me. Don't recognize me. Don't recognize me._

"Oops," she cooed when she reached Farshad's sofa, pretending to drop her bra so that she could bend to flaunt her butt.

Grinning, Farshad tucked a fifty into her thong. _Typical Farshad._

_Pour some sugar on me  
Ooh, in the name of love  
Pour some sugar on me  
C'mon fire me up  
Pour your sugar on me  
Oh, I can't get enough_

A tickle on Connor's neck caused him to jump. Louise had collared him with her bra. Back and forth it slinked, grating against the tender spots where Heather had bit him, while a red ribbon grazed his cheek and a voice close to his ear sang:

"I'm hot, sticky sweet  
From my head to my feet yeah."

The bra dropped into his lap and as the guitar solo thundered, Louise emerged from behind Connor to tower over him. She snapped her thong strap and bared her teeth in a predatory smile. Splaying her fingers on his shoulders, she leaned down and uttered in that same breathy purr, "Hey, lucky guy, it's time for you to _really_ get lucky."

Connor doubted this. He doubted it very much. With so many other guys vying for her attention, why did she have to single him out? So what if he was the groom?

Heedless to his pain, Louise pivoted on a spiky heel, planted a foot on either side of him, and began to grind her butt energetically into his lap.

"Go, Connor!" shouted the spectators, stomping their feet and clapping. "Wooo hoo!"

As she ground with increased friction, Connor sat frozen in a rictus of agony, hands hanging limply at his sides, eyes unblinking. He would have rather rappelled off a cliff blindfolded than endure a lap dance from Louise Linett. Blindfolded and upside down. Onto a cactus patch. While wearing no pants.

"It's OK, you _are_ allowed to touch me," she hissed in his ear, triggering another lurch of déjà vu. She jerked her head toward Simon. "Your friend paid extra."

"I'm good," Connor lied in a strangled whisper. She was obviously trying to get a reaction from him. Get a rise out of him, so to speak. But dread that she would recognize him, coupled with the effects of the not-so quickie in the bathroom — and the sheer effort of holding at bay the montage of leather garments, tattoos, and heaving body parts dredged up by seeing her again — conspired to ensure that his crotch remained a bulge-free zone.

How would a stripper perceive a non-reactive customer? As a personal affront? A challenge?

He was, he feared, about to find out.

Frosted pink lips pinched in determination, Louise straddled him and swung her shapely legs onto his shoulders. The sculpted lines of her abdominal muscles stretched and creased as she undulated in sinewy movements, slicked with sweat, her breasts bouncing like over-sized rubber balls and her pigtails trailing on the floor.

Cheers resounded. He was the only one not enjoying the lap dance.

_You got the peaches, I got the cream  
Sweet to taste, saccharine  
'Cos I'm hot, say what, sticky sweet  
From my head, my head, to my feet _  
_Do you take sugar? one lump or two?_

Without warning, Louise shoved his face into her cleavage, pummeling his cheeks with her breasts. They were as soft and springy as he remembered. His scalp crawled.

_Take a bottle, shake it up  
Break the bubble, break it up_

_Kill me now_, he thought as the final chorus crescendoed. _Just kill me now_.

_Pour some sugar on me  
Ooh, in the name of love  
Pour some sugar on me  
C'mon fire me up  
Pour your sugar on me  
Oh, I can't get enough_

Apparently still dissatisfied, Louise gouged her fingernails into the scruff of his neck and yanked him upright. There was nowhere to look but at her heart-shaped face as her wide, sensual eyes, rimmed with thickly curled false lashes, searched his face. Droplets of cold sweat trickled from his armpits. He was cornered. Trapped. Like the morning he woke up on an ROTC hike to find a rattlesnake in his tent.

And then something shifted behind Louise's eyes. They grew wider, her manicured eyebrows shooting up her forehead, then narrowed to slits.

"You!" she exclaimed. The backs of her knees clenched his shoulders as she sat up taller. "I know you!"

_Shit._

Connor shook his head vehemently. "No, you don't. I've never seen you before in my life."

"Yes, you have," she contradicted. "Frosh Week 2030."

"That wasn't me," he rebuffed.

"Oh, yes it was."

"No, it wasn't."

"Yes, it was. You're–"

"It _is_ you!" crowed Farshad, leaping up from his sofa. "I _knew_ you looked familiar."

At this, Louise hopped off Connor's lap. "You!" she exclaimed in a voice that dripped with venom. She stalked over to Farshad and slapped him hard across his face. Nothing Connor hadn't seen before, since Farshad's relationships never ended well.

Then she grabbed Farshad's face in her hands and pulled him into a kiss.

More whistles and cheers.

"What the fuck, dudes?" Simon was on his feet, too. He glared at Connor and Farshad, hating to be left out of any drama. "Does someone want to tell me what's going on?"

"Um, uh, we know her from college," Connor muttered, still fused to his chair.

"Well, _I_ know her from college," said Farshad, rubbing his reddened cheek. "I _definitely_ know her." He winked at Louise, then shot a confused look at Connor. "How the hell do _you_ know her?"

Eyes on the floor, Connor stuttered out, "Met her at a party. Once. That's it. Nothing else. Nothing happened."

"You're damn right nothing happened," Louise corroborated in an acid tone. She had both hands on her hips, one hip cocked.

_Don't say it. Don't say it._

"But not for lack of trying," she said with a dooming finality.

Connor felt his vertebrae crunch together. _OK, _now_ kill me..._

"What?" Farshad and Simon demanded in unison, their eyes swivelling from Louise to Connor and then back to Louise.

She shrugged breezily. "I put on the hottest porn ever, and he _still_ couldn't get it up."

That wasn't exactly true, though. "I got it up," Connor refuted fiercely. "I just couldn't..." His voice withered as he had That Night. "Keep it up," he concluded in a mumble, heat scorching his cheeks.

"What did you put on?" asked a friend from UCLA, sounding concerned. "It could have scared him."

"I put on Mr. and Mrs. Latex," said Louise, shrugging again. "How can you not get it up for that?"

A collective gasp ran through the group, as though Louise had announced that Connor had a penchant for barbecuing little girls' kittens and eating them for dinner.

"Who are they? What are you talking about?" asked another friend.

A guy leaned to whisper in his ear.

"Oh, that one's fucking hot." He gaped at Connor, eyes popping. "What's wrong with you, dude?"

"Is that a Woodman title?" queried Simon, who never watched anything produced by his parents.

"Dunno, but Mrs. Latex came like six times."

"Totally hot."

"Best Halley's Comet ever," contributed the D.J. via microphone, alerting Connor to the absence of music. He hadn't even noticed that the song had finished and that another one hadn't started. Wasn't he supposed to do something when the first song was over? He couldn't recall. He could hardly string together coherent thoughts over the racket assaulting his eardrums, like a DVD commentary track with no "off" button. It was just as he'd suspected. Millions of people had seen his parents' video. The _whole world_ had seen it.

"And when they did the reverse flying eagle..." the speaker shook his head. "I just don't bend that way."

"I saw it at my buddy's bachelor party," said an overgrown fratboy. One of Heather's friends. "I jizzed in my pants."

"Yeah, me, too."

Connor's imagination slunk into view, carrying a shovel to dig its own grave.

"Mr. Latex is my personal hero," slurred a guy who'd had too much to drink.

"I learned so much from him."

"Like the porcupine move."

"And the double-necked dolphin dive."

"My girl loves it when I give it to her like that."

"I've got something I'd like to give Mrs. Latex," brayed the fratboy.

Streaks of red blinded Connor. His imagination broke off mid-dig.

_That's it._

Connor jumped to his feet, overturning his chair and sending Louise's bra flying. "Shut the fuck up, all of you!" he roared. "Just shut it!"

The group lapsed into stunned silence. When his vision cleared, he saw that everyone was staring at him, even Louise, who'd been chatting with Farshad, both of them ignorant to the true depth of his bloodbath of humiliation.

His hands were balled into fists and he was breathing hard, ready to spew flames. Ready to knock the fratboy across the bar and punch in his teeth.

And he might have, if a chastening sound hadn't cut through the deafening beat of his heart.

"Connor?"

He turned to see his fiancée standing there. With her were Peter and Jens, as well as Jackie, Johanna, and three other girls. On Heather's face he read a mixture of bewilderment and dismay. And a hint of fear.

"What's going on?" she asked, folding her arms over her chest. "Why are you yelling?"

"Uh..." Connor stammered. His tongue welded itself to the roof of his mouth. What could he say? _What answer will get me in the least amount of trouble?

* * *

_

**A/N: Hmmm, what will Connor tell Heather? The truth about Mr. and Mrs. Latex, or something else? Stay tuned… Additional bonus point opportunities: which Chapter 1 line of Louise's is repeated here? And which Zack line from R2's Chapter 23 "A Promise" appears here?**

**Btw, I just wanted to mention that the title of Chapter 4 "Jack and Jill Went Up the Hill" was metaphorical in every sense. In this main arc of the story, we have a Jack and a Jill, a Jack and Jill party, and a hill, atop which the action takes place. That's all I'm gonna say. Please read and review, and I hope the summer (or winter) heat isn't too sweltering wherever you live. As always, lots of thanks. Xoxoxo – Ellie**


	8. We're Getting Married!

**A/N: Research is an important component of writing, so it was handy that last weekend I had a bachelorette party to go to. The party involved a visit to a strip club, where lap dances were enjoyed by the bride-to-be (a girl I used to babysit for) and yours truly took notes on her iPhone — because I really am that much of a nerd.**

**OC Update  
Dusty Rider — Theo Alexander (Talbot on **_**True Blood**_**)**

**Continued thanks to my wonderful beta-reader Waldojeffers.

* * *

**

**Chapter 8: "We're Getting Married!"

* * *

**

The appearance of six girls defused some of the tension in the testosterone-charged air, but before Connor could formulate a trouble-dodging answer, Louise had zeroed in on Heather's engagement ring.

"Oh, honey," she admonished with mock pity as she shook her head, "do yourself a favour and get out now. You may have a figure like a little boy, but I doubt that will keep him satisfied."

"Excuse me?" Heather snapped, her eyes zooming from face to face, like she was trying to take stock of the situation. They settled accusingly on Connor.

"I hate to break it you," Louise said, sounding like she didn't at all, "but your fiancé would be more interested in Dusty in the long run."

_This is not happening. _The Voice of Denial was back. _This is just a grotesque humiliate-the-groom ritual._ _Any minute now, everyone is going to break into hysterical laughter, Simon will say this is all a big joke, part of every Jack and Jill party, and we'll return to our regularly scheduled programming. Whatever that is._ Connor had never actually heard of a Jack and Jill party until Simon approached him brimming with ideas for one.

"You'll have an awesome time and raise tons of money for the wedding," Simon had lobbied, scrolling through price lists on his BlackBerry, and stupidly Connor had agreed.

And now here he was, caught between an angry fiancée and an obnoxious stripper. An obnoxious, vengeful stripper with whom he had a history, however brief.

To his quasi-relief, Simon, instigator of this night from Hell, snapped into damage control mode. Showering smiles upon the new arrivals, he said in a falsely bright tone, "OK, we're all caught up here. Lee, thanks for the nostalgia, but you have a show to get on with. Everyone, if you could move toward centre stage." He gestured to the risers set up in the middle of the room and smacked Louise's butt when she stayed put.

"Simon, what is going on here?" Heather asked icily.

Simon looked to Connor, as if seeking direction, but Connor could only flop into his chair — his "seat of honour" — too shaken to respond. He'd expected Heather to tell Louise where to go, not ask questions.

Farshad patted his shoulder awkwardly, martini in hand.

Heather didn't mince words. "Simon, I will rip off your nuts if you don't tell me _right now _what the fuck is going on!" she shrilled.

Casting a pained glance at Connor, Simon pointed to him and Farshad. "Seems these two know Miss Easy Lee from college," he said, "and Connor had some performance issues related to a video she put on."

Heather leveled a gaze at Connor. "What video?"

"A latex video," he said in a low voice, unable to meet her eyes. Had Heather also seen his parents' latex-clad antics? Everyone else had, so why not her?

"Not just _any_ latex video," the fratboy butted in. "_The_ latex video. You'd have to be gay not to get it up for Mr. and Mrs. Latex."

Several guys nodded, and at least two of the girls.

But if the names rang a bell, Heather didn't let on. Her chin jutted out and her sea-green eyes flashed anger as they bore into Connor. "Do you and Farshad have something you want to tell me?" she demanded.

Farshad choked on a sip of martini, while Connor reeled. _Does she really think I'm gay?_

"Connor is not gay," Simon spoke up. He shrugged contemplatively. "Bi-curious, maybe, but not gay."

"He's been my roommate for four years, and he's never once made a pass at me," Farshad spluttered, backing away to wipe his face with a napkin from the bar. Composure recovered, he threw a suave look at the girls and waved a hand over himself. "And who could resist _this_?"

"Connor doesn't dress well enough to be gay," said the friend from UCLA. He looked questioningly at Peter and Jens. "Does he?"

"Don't look at me," said Peter apologetically, half to Heather, half to the friend. "I haven't needed gaydar since meeting Jens."

"Guys, I'm standing right here," Connor blustered, getting to his feet. But with everyone talking at once, nobody seemed to hear him.

"Maybe he just wasn't that into that you and your skanky ass," Jackie said, eyeing Louise up and down with distaste.

"Bitch," Louise shot back.

"Yeah, he likes nice, wholesome girls like Heather," Johanna chimed in.

"But what about all those stories you hear?" pondered another girl. "Woman wakes up one morning to find her husband of 20 years has left her for a guy he met on a gay dating site?"

"That happened to my mom's friend."

"My sister's boyfriend turned out to be gay."

"Not that there's anything wrong with that."

The Voice of Denial changed its tune. _OK, this really is happening_. _My bad. Over to you, pal_.

Taking a deep breath, Connor yelled, "I just fucked Heather in the can." A crass but air-tight defense of his sexual orientation.

"I hope you used a lot of lube," jeered the fratboy.

"I didn't know girls enjoyed that," said a guy, scratching his chin.

"That doesn't mean anything," said Jens, whose first language wasn't English. "We do it in the can all the time," he justified while Peter turned pink and others snickered.

"We just had sex in the bathroom," Heather screeched, pink-faced herself. She clamped her arms tighter around her chest, and Connor realized with horror that his defense had a fatal weakness and that Heather was about to ask him an extremely embarrassing question. A question no man ever wanted to hear from his betrothed. Especially not in front of all his friends.

"Tell me the truth, Connor." Her eyes had gone cold as a New England winter. "Is that why you couldn't get it up?"

A mass intake of breath followed, punctuated by few scandalized _Ooooh_'s.

"Hey, buddy, it happens to everyone," the D.J. said into his microphone sympathetically.

"Well, not _every_one," said Simon, shooting a leer at the girls. "You know what I'm sayin'?"

Jackie and Johanna scowled at him.

Ears flaming, Connor faced his fiancée and steeled himself with a second deep breath. "No, I am not gay," he stated with all the emphasis he could muster. For good measure, he darted his eyes to the left. His dad had told him that people tended to look to the right when they were lying and he wasn't going to take any chances.* Except that his left was Heather's right, which might confuse her if she knew about this reflex. "I've never even kissed a guy," he elaborated for additional measure. "I'm just not an exhibitionist, OK?"

_Damn, where did that last bit come from?_

Before Connor could extract his foot from his mouth, Heather had stamped one of hers. "Are you saying I'm an exhibitionist?" she asked in a voice that could curdle milk.

Connor had sudden vision of Heather in the scarlet dress she'd worn the night they met. If she were wearing it now, she would look like a stick of dynamite.

"Kids, kids, nobody is saying _anything_." Simon stepped in between them, wearing his peacemaker hat. "Heather, Connor isn't gay, he just doesn't like latex. As for you, Connor, do you know how many guys would kill to marry a girl who likes to have sex in public? You should be thanking your lucky stars, dude." He clapped a hand on Connor's shoulder. "Anyway, we're here to have fun, so let's just relax and enjoy the show."

Striding over to Louise, who was posing provocatively for the fratboy as he stuffed bills into her thong, he said, "You're not getting paid to stand around chatting. Get on with your show already."

Louise collected her cheerleader bras from the floor and sauntered into the curtained area, grumbling.

Simon then motioned to the D.J. and upbeat country music blared from the speakers, several decibels louder than earlier, and the two groups began converging around the risers.

Watching Heather at the bar with Peter, Connor felt a jab of guilt. Then another. Had they just had their first real fight? Yes, it seemed so. He would have to take all the blame. It wasn't Heather's fault that Louise was here tonight. That she was a shit-disturber with a big mouth and the ability to hold a grudge for years.

"Honey, I am so, so sorry," he said when Heather returned. He took her hand, running his fingers over the spaces between her knuckles. "I am totally going to kick Simon's ass later. I haven't seen Lee since my Frosh Week and that night is not an experience I'd like to relive. I'm really sorry you had to go through that."

Heather gave him a small smile and a one-armed hug. The hug felt stiff, but he decided to make do.

She hadn't brought him a drink, he noted, but surely that was because he was the designated driver. Because they were going to Santa Barbara or Palm Springs after the party, not the hotel Simon had booked. How could he have forgotten? He groped in his pants pocket for his phone. A quick call to the American Express concierge service, to which he had access via his TMVC Amex card, would take care of all the arrangements. He would book them into a five-star hotel in Santa Barbara overlooking a gorgeous beach. Breakfast in bed. A steaming hot tub. Heather's bare back to rub sunscreen on while they lay in powder-soft sand, soothed by the sun's rays and the brain-massaging roll of ocean waves.

Johanna stormed by at that moment, a look of disgust on her face and the fratboy in hot pursuit. He jostled Heather's arm, spilling some of her cocktail.

"Why did you invite him?" Heather fumed. "He's such an ass."

Connor goggled at her. "_I_ didn't invite him, I thought he was _your_ friend."

"I have no idea who he is."

"Me neither."

He looked around for Simon so that they could solve the party-crasher puzzle, but the host was back on stage.

"Since Connor is from Texas, we have some Southern-flavoured entertainment for y'all," Simon announced after a server had finished depositing two chairs on the stage. "Give it up for Dusty Rider and Miss Easy Lee!"

The crowd went wild as Dusty and Louise trotted out. Dusty Rider, a swarthy, muscled type, had the look of someone who divided his time equally between tanning salons and the gym. He'd switched his cop uniform for an ensemble of black leather chaps, a black leather thong, a huge cowboy hat, and cowboy boots. Louise had donned a fringed red leather bra and skirt, and white cowboy boots. In her hand she carried a lasso.

Simon jumped down to the floor, and Dusty and Louise began taking turns lassoing guests onto the stage for a medley of suggestive dances.

In a weird way, the entertainment reminded Connor of the barn dances his mom took him to when they lived in Kansas and she was married to Moose Green. Moose, the man Connor had known as his father for the first six years of his life, had remarried a few months after his parents got back together. Despite a promise to stay in touch, Connor had heard nothing from him since then, but wished him well. He didn't like to hold a grudge and though he'd missed Moose terribly at first, ultimately he was glad Moose had been able to move on with his life after the divorce.

Thankfully, Louise seemed to have gotten over her grudge, too. She paid no attention to Connor as she two-stepped past him with various breathless, laughing partners, both male and female. As the drinks flowed and the activities on stage grew more and more interactive, those who had seen the ruckus with Louise seemed to forget about it. To Connor, standing with Heather, Peter, and Jens, the only traces were the slightly rigid feel of Heather's hand in his, and Farshad and Simon sticking close by in a convincing impression of bros before ho's.

"I can't believe I'm sloppy thirds," he heard Simon say dejectedly, watching Louise bump and grind in her cowboy boots, "even though nothing happened between her and Connor."

"Dude, at this point you're more like sloppy fiftieths," Farshad razzed. "If you're lucky."

"That was so much fun," Jens enthused as he returned rosy-cheeked and sweaty from being lassoed to a chair by Dusty while Louise set the stage on fire. "Great entertainment, Simon," he called out. "Top drawer. Dusty is really..." he spread his hands wide, "...talented. Can we get him for our wedding?"

"You want to marry me?" Peter screamed out, eyes alight with glee.

"Yes!" exclaimed Jens giddily. "Yes, I do."

"Oh my God, we're getting married!" Peter threw himself into Jens' arms and they kissed passionately.

Simon materialized next to the overjoyed couple, toting his microphone and shouting for a spotlight. "Attention everyone, we have another engaged couple in the house thanks to Simon Says Party," he proclaimed, beaming like a proud parent. "Peter Whitfield and Jens Jiménez have just announced their impending nuptials."

The announcement spurred immediate cheering and clapping.

"Peter and Jens will be using Simon Says Party for all their wedding needs," Simon continued. "I'd like to take this opportunity to remind you that Simon Says Party is an all-inclusive event planning company–"

Peter yanked the microphone from Simon and shrieked, "We're getting married!"

As the cheers rose, Connor shook hands with both Peter and Jens, and Peter grabbed Heather around her waist and swung her up in the air. "Heather, you'll be the Matron of Honour," he said, "since you'll probably be married by then."

"Probably?" Heather's voice was stony. She'd been uncharacteristically quiet until now.

Peter exchanged an uneasy glance with Jens. "I just meant that we'll most likely wait until next June, so we can tie the knot during Pride Week. Like we talked about before. Right, Jens?"

"We'll be Pride-grooms," affirmed Jens, squeezing his hand.

Heather cracked a smile. "Of course I'll be your Matron of Honour," she said, sounding genuinely honoured. She kissed Peter's cheek and he hugged her again.

"Break out your best bubbly, and put it on my tab," Simon called to the bartender.

A festive atmosphere reigned as servers began to circulate with trays of champagne flutes and Shania Twain's "Party for Two" poured from the speakers, quintessential happy country pop. Perfect for a celebration.

_Hey Billy  
__(Yeah)  
__I'm having a party, wanna come?__  
(Naw, I don't think so)  
Oh, come on... it's gonna be lots of fun  
(Nah)__  
_

_Woah!_

Connor declined a flute, eyeing the exit longingly. _A party for two sounds like a good idea. A really good idea._

Heather was standing next to him, silent once more, taking small sips from her own flute. Her hunched shoulders and tight-lipped expression radiated negativity. Was she feeling upstaged by Peter and Jens, he wondered, or was she still wondering if he was gay?

When they got to Santa Barbara he would _show_ her that she had nothing to worry about, that he was heterosexual to the core. He would lay her down on the hotel bed, generously return the favour she'd bestowed on him in the bathroom stall. Very generously. Moan and groan and shout until guests on both sides of their room called the front desk to complain about the noise. Blast her up to the ceiling, _Scary Movie_–style. And afterward they would fall asleep snuggled in each other's arms, escaping into a reverse dreamworld where tonight was the nightmare and real life was a safe place where there were no evil strippers and nobody had seen Mr. and Mrs. Latex. Where weddings didn't cost a fortune and everyone had a shot at happily ever after, because happily ever after was more than just a fairytale construct, more than just source material for movie executives with dollar signs in their eyes. The same dollar signs Farshad had in his eyes when he called Uncle Cody's private number to tell him about an alternative fuel developer that he just knew would revolutionize the global energy industry.

_I'm having me a party  
(I don't think I can come)  
Uh,uh, this ain't just any kind of party  
(Nah, I think I'll stay at home)  
Uh, oh, no It's gonna be really, really hot  
(Startin' to sound good)  
I'm gonna put you on the spot  
(Baby, maybe I should)  
Yeah, there'll be lots of one on one  
(Guess I could be there)  
Come on and join the fun  
(What should I wear?)  
I'll tell you 'bout it_

All around him Connor saw guests jumping up and down, singing along — Peter and Jens, holding hands. Simon, Jackie, Johanna, even Farshad. The fratboy was nowhere in sight.

_It doesn't matter what you wear  
'Cause it's only gonna be  
you and me there _

_Whoah!_

_I'm having a party  
A party for two  
Invitin' nobody  
Nobody but you_

The song had an infectious vibe and Connor surrendered to it, letting it wash over him, boosting his spirits. Until he happened to glance at the stage.

_What the hell is Louise up to? Is that a strap-on she's wearing? And what is she doing to Dusty's butt? _

Within seconds Heather had turned on him viciously, eyes blazing as she screamed, "What the hell kind of entertainment is this? Did you ask Simon for this kind of show?" Waving a hand at Louise, who had paused mid-thrust, smirking with amusement, she demanded, "Is that what you want me to do to you?"

Dr. Wolowitz had told him that a healthy, adventurous sex life could be the foundation of a long-lasting marriage. The same could be said for honesty. Secrets festered, leading to nasty surprises and hurt feelings, as they had tonight. Honesty, on the other hand, maintained the integrity of each partner in a relationship, which in turn maintained the integrity of the relationship — the kind of relationship he wanted to have with Heather, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, for the rest of their lives.

There was only one thing left to do.

Connor led his fiancée over to a window where they could have some semblance of privacy. It was pitch dark outside, the glimmer of the city blending into reflections of light from inside Melo.

"OK, I'll tell you the truth," he said, his stomach tangling in knots.

Heather bit her lip nervously and folded her arms in a protective stance.

Connor gritted his teeth to steady his nerves, strengthen his resolve. He cleared his throat. "I don't know for certain, because I've never tried to find out, but I'm 90 per cent sure my parents were Mr. and Mrs. Latex." The words tripped off his tongue in all their gruesome absurdity. "And that's why I couldn't get it up."

How strange it felt to say this to someone other than Dr. Wolowitz, like he was talking about another person's misfortune, or a scene from a ludicrous straight-to-DVD comedy. Whatever Heather had expected to hear, this couldn't have been it.

But all she did was look up at him uncomprehendingly. "What?" she asked. "I can't hear you."

Was the music getting louder? Connor wrestled with the desire to backpedal, to say "Never mind, it's nothing," and repeated, "My parents were Mr. and Mrs. Latex and that's why I couldn't get it up."

Heather squinted, as if trying to see him better would also sharpen her hearing. "What?"

Connor's throat was getting hoarse. One more time. He filled his lungs with oxygen. "MY PARENTS WERE MR. AND MRS. LATEX AND THAT'S WHY I COULDN'T GET IT UP."

When the hush fell, Connor asked himself two questions. Had he really yelled at the top of his lungs? Or had it just sounded that way because the music had abruptly stopped?

Blood rushed to his head. The floor swayed under his feet.

Louise was the first to break the silence. She let out a cackle of laughter and slapped Dusty's butt.

And then the commentary track kicked in...

"Awww, dude."

"Total MILF."

"Awesome."

"Is your mom single?" The fratboy had reappeared.

Farshad kept quiet, his expression unreadable, and moved to stand beside Connor, a gesture of solidarity that he greatly appreciated.

Simon, for his part, sprang into action, aiming a death-ray glare at the D.J. who quickly put on a new song, then pushing on Louise as though reminding her of what she was supposed to be doing.

Party essentials under control, he rushed up to fling an arm around Connor. "Connor, you poor bastard," he lamented, shaking his head. "Why didn't you say something before?"

The dizziness had begun to abate, the knots in his stomach untangle. "It wasn't exactly something I wanted to share," he said. And yet unburdening the secret after nearly four years — even though practically everyone he knew had heard it — actually felt good. Liberating. Like a giant weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

Realizing this, he looked to Heather to gauge her reaction.

"I don't even know what to say to that," she said after several moments had passed. "That's kind of gross."

"It shouldn't matter to you, Heather," Simon jumped in with a defensiveness that startled Connor. "Connor's parents aren't the only ones who've done porn." He nudged her with his elbow.

"Simon, shut up," Heather barked. A look of terror crossed her face.

Connor felt his mouth fall open.

* * *

**A/N: Did Connor see that on the horizon? Did you? Did anyone? **

**Thanks for reading and reviewing. You guys are a permanently awesome bunch! :) Xoxoxo – Ellie**

***According to the science of Neuro Linguistic Programming (NLP), eye direction can indicate whether a person is lying. Zack used these techniques on the Ultranationalist prison guards in R2 Chapter 20 "Famous For My Hooch" to gain their trust.  
**


	9. Dude, I Thought You Knew

**A/N: Welcome to Chapter 9! At the end of Chapter 8, Heather was revealed to have a secret that apparently only Simon knew. What will the fallout be? Duhn, duhn, duhn…**

**Thanks to Waldojeffers for timely, patient beta-reading analysis.**

* * *

**Chapter 9: "Dude, I Thought You Knew"**

* * *

_When a man loves a woman_  
_ Deep down in his soul_  
_ She can bring him such misery_

_Percy Sledge, "When a Man Loves a Woman"_

[-]

"I thought you told him, you told me you told him about the movies you did for Woodman Studios," Simon said to Heather, babbling now. He glanced worriedly at Connor. "Dude, I thought you knew."

Heather blanched. "Shut up, shut _up_!" she hissed in a frantic, vicious tone.

This was no joke — no Jack and Jill party prank, no July Fool's Day farce. Connor knew it from the fear on Simon's face and the tears welling in Heather's eyes. And at last there was no Voice of Denial to drown out the other voices in his head. Farshad's. _She looks so familiar. I'm sure I've seen her somewhere before._ Dad's. _She's a nice girl and all, but how well do you really know her?_

"Shit," murmured Farshad, meeting Connor's gaze for a second, and Connor saw his discomfort, a flicker of guilt.

"Honey, sweetie, say something," Heather pleaded, stretching out her arms as though Connor were a child who needed to be comforted.

He fell back a step. What could he say? The tongue-tying shock was starting to wear off and he was seeing red again, red streaks clouding the edges of his vision, Heather dolled up in that red dress, asking him, "So, you're not in the industry?" With a lurch of nausea he realized why so many faces at the party at the Nouveau Bel Age Hotel had looked vaguely familiar — he recognized them from movies "prescribed" by Dr. Wolowitz. Of course the birthday party had been a porn industry gathering, not a regular movie industry gathering as he'd thought. A birthday party for someone connected to Simon's dad. How stupid he was, how ridiculously, pathetically naïve.

"Honey?" Heather's lower jaw trembled, her voice quivering. "This doesn't change anything. We still love each other."

"It changes _everything_." Connor made no attempt to hide his anger, astounded that he was even coherent. "How could you not tell me about this? What else aren't you telling me?"

A pink flush crept up Heather's neck. "Nothing. It was just a few movies last summer. Long before we met. I needed the money."

_I'm just saying, a prenuptial agreement is a good idea_. Dad's voice again.

Connor raised an eyebrow at Heather, spitting, "You couldn't have gotten a job as a waitress? It's not like there's a shortage of restaurants in L.A."

_Better to know who you really are than wonder if you're a gold-digger._ The hateful words had already vaulted to the tip of his tongue, just waiting for the right moment to make the leap to public record, to poison the air between them and the whole ambience of Melo.

Tears were falling down Heather's cheeks. She took a shaky breath, squaring her shoulders slightly. "My parents lost their life savings in the stock market crash last year." Her eyes flicked to Farshad. "That so-called market correction,* as you so eloquently put it," she snarled. "They almost had to declare bankruptcy. I couldn't get enough financial aid to cover my tuition because I had credit card debt. I just wanted to be able to finish my degree."

Connor's mind veered away from the memory of meeting Heather's parents in February, a pleasant middle-aged couple who had seemed like a model of suburbanite normalcy, no different from his own parents. Not like paupers at all.

"And that's also why I can't ask my parents to help pay for the wedding," she added. "Not just because my sister is about to start college."

"You should have told me."

"Connor, I didn't even tell my parents about the movies."

"And how many was that?" Connor gritted out the question in a whisper, his voice barely audible above the ongoing hum of country music.

"What?" Heather's eyes went wide with horror. She had heard him.

A muscle in Connor's jaw twitched as he clenched it. Despising the vitriol in his voice but unable to rein it in as the cats, let out of their respective bags, ran around clawing the furniture and marking their territory, he asked, "How many movies did it take to pay off your debt? How many guys did you have to fuck? How many–"

"How many dicks did I suck?" Heather snatched the question from his mouth. "Why does it even matter? The important thing is that I took responsibility. I paid off my debt _and_ my tuition."

"How many?" Connor was screaming, his imagination in overdrive, churning with the most depraved smut he could conjure up, torturing him with images of his beautiful Heather being defiled and violated in every possible way and — worst of all — enjoying every minute of it. Enjoying it more than anything the two of them had done together, including tonight's bathroom bliss, when he'd felt his soul leaving his body to join hers, known that his soul belonged to her, his soulmate.

Heather's shoulders slumped, the cowl neck of her dress exposing the top of her cleavage. "It was just 15 movies," she mumbled. "Maybe 16."

Another burst of rage. Connor took another step back. "So what does that make me? Sloppy five-hundredths?"

Heather gasped and put her hand over her mouth, her face crumpling.

Then Simon's hand was on Connor's arm, pulling him back to the world, reminding him that they weren't alone, that this trainwreck was playing out in front of their friends, plus Dusty and Louise frozen on stage, the D.J. in his booth, the bartender behind the bar, all of them silent, the fratboy included.

"Connor, calm down," Simon said quietly. "Porn is just a job, like any other. Everyone has a past. Let's just take a deep breath and chill."

Connor shook off Simon's hand. Easy for him to say, he was almost as much of a player as Farshad. Outside of one ill-fated brush with a coed-turned-stripper — which had come back to bite him in the ass — Connor didn't have a past. He'd slept with exactly four girls. He wasn't Heather's first, hadn't even expected to be, but this... this was _different_. For so many reasons.

One in particular.

"I can't believe you weren't going to tell me," he thundered, "that you were just going to let our kids stumble upon this secret career of yours and be traumatized for life."

"OK, I _was_ going to tell you. That night at the Nouveau Bel Age, our six-month anniversary. I was going to tell you everything, I swear." Heather was crying openly now, her eyes overflowing and her jugular vein standing out in her neck, a throbbing blue cord against her pale skin. "But then you proposed to me, and I was too scared of losing you. You have this sweetness, this innocence, it's one of the things I love most about you. You make me feel brand-new, like none of it ever happened. I love you so much it hurts."

Connor couldn't have imagined Heather crying tonight, like the girl in the song who cried at her party because Johnny had dumped her for Judy. Only in this scenario _he_ was the one who'd been wronged — who'd been lied to, deceived, betrayed, left in the dark to unwittingly replicate That Night at some point in the future, undefined but inevitable — while Heather, the perpetrator, was the one falling apart, like a china doll that had been dropped on its head. Cracks splintering her cheeks, bits of her face chipping off to fall at their feet. Her upturned nose flattened. Mascara running in muddy rivulets like paint dissolving. Lipstick bleeding from her mouth to her chin.

"Connor, please, please don't be mad." Heather's hand shook as she begged, reaching out to him. "We can get through this. I love you and you love me, you know you do. I love you so much."

Underneath Connor's anger struggled a desire, a desperate wish, to put Heather back together, stop her crumbling to pieces and make her whole again. But he didn't know how, and when her fingers touched his wrist he flinched.

Heather recoiled as if he'd bitten her. "I _knew_ you wouldn't understand. You've had everything handed to you on a fucking silver platter." Her sobbing rose to a shriek and she whirled away from him, stumbling and tottering in her heels, her hair falling over her face.

_Fuck. _

_No!_

"Heather!" Connor called out, his voice breaking. He had to go after her.

Had to.

But Johanna ran after Heather while the newly engaged Peter and Jens stepped in front of him, their expressions grim. Forbidding. Threatening even. An expression mirrored on virtually every other face in the crowd, a sea of hostility surrounding him, completely at odds with the light-hearted music.

He was the asshole, in spite of having been crushed publicly and repeatedly until he felt like a punching bag that had come unstuffed. He was the villain. _Persona non grata_ at his own Jack and Jill party.

"Congratulations, guys," he muttered to Peter and Jens. It was their party now.

When he was halfway to the exit, he felt something touch his shoulder and turned to look at his best friend.

"Dude, I... I..." Farshad's lips moved, but no words came out, in eerie contrast to his rambling on the drive up to Melo. _Dude, I think you are making a huge mistake... Why do you want to throw your life away? You can do that later, when we've made our fortunes and traveled the world... But if you're happy, then it's a good mistake._

Connor wasn't used to seeing Farshad flounder. He looked back at him, registering the concern in his dark eyes, then looked at the floor, feeling just as helpless, just as dazed, by the mind-warping, cartoonish surreality of the entire night.

"Yeah," he agreed after a long minute. It was all he could think of to say.

Farshad held onto his shoulder. "No, dude, don't..."

Sighing, Connor pushed Farshad's hand away. "Just let it go," he said in a tone of defeat and left without a backward glance.

* * *

**A/N: Is anyone in the wrong? Is life just tough? Can Connor and Heather survive the truth coming out? Does Father know best, or is that merely an outdated, patriarchal notion/name of a 1950s family sitcom? Stay tuned… but first, please submit a review and share your thoughts. Lots of thanks, dear readers, and love to all of you. Xoxoxo – Ellie**

***A market correction is a short-term decline in the stock market (10% or less) that does not trigger an economic recession or depression. But as in any financial crisis, there is always someone who loses their shirt (no pun intended!). The market correction was mentioned in Chapter 5, while Farshad bored Peter, Jens, and other party guests with business talk. Just as Cody and Justin bored London with business talk in Chapter 9 "Frozen Assets" of R1. (As a marketing & business writer, I have a deep-rooted need to incorporate business and political issues into my FF stories as a way to justify that I'm actually working when I'm writing FF.)**

**Extra notes on the text for continuity:  
Zack's and Farshad's reservations about Heather/marriage in general were addressed in flashbacks in Chapters 5 and 4, respectively. Connor's "coolsome" first encounter with Heather at a birthday party for a friend of Woody's was recapped in Chapter 4, and the proposal scene, where Connor thought he knew that Heather was about to ask her to marry him, was recapped in Chapter 5. The ever-catchy song "It's My Party (and I'll Cry If I Want To)" was the theme of Chapter 6, in which Dr. Wolowitz advised Connor to watch "conventional adult videos featuring well-known actors and actresses" in order to overcome his fears, and in which Connor and Heather had some fun in a bathroom stall (that ironically prompted Heather to fear Louise was right when she announced at the beginning of Chapter 8 that Connor was gay). Farshad's insistence that Heather looked familiar was mentioned at the end of Chapter 6.**


	10. Movers, Shakers, and Dream Chasers

**A/N: Hello, dear readers! Here is the "real" Chapter 10. It was actually supposed to be part of Chapter 9, immediately after Connor leaves the Jack and Jill party in apparent disgrace, but I decided it would work better as a separate chapter. Lots of references to previous chapters to look out for, and a few to events in R2. On with the story…**

**Continued thanks to Waldojeffers for beta-reading excellence.**

* * *

**Chapter 10: Movers, Shakers, and Dream Chasers**

* * *

_Suppose I never ever met you__  
Suppose we never fell in love__  
Suppose I never ever let you kiss me  
So sweet and so soft _

_Regina Spektor, "Fidelity"_

[-]

Connor was shaking so hard he had to pull over to the side of the road when he reached Mulholland Drive. He could have entrusted the GPS to direct him home to Westwood Village, but he couldn't face the night traffic of Sunset Boulevard and wasn't in the mood for the freakshow glare of Hollywood Boulevard, running parallel to Sunset, with its runaways and after-hours straggle of costumed panhandlers, dead-eyed stares advertising broken dreams.

Snaking along the crest of the Santa Monica Mountains, Mulholland Drive normally made Connor feel like he was on top of the world. He and Heather had seen the neo-noir thriller _Mulholland Drive_ at a revival movie theatre on their fourth date just to tie their brains in knots. Afterwards they had parked at a lookout spot a few twists down the road from where he was now. They had talked for hours, first analyzing the film, then discussing their hopes and plans for life after graduation, already meshing their two worlds in a way that hadn't felt forced or stilted, but completely natural. What Connor remembered most about date number four was the soaring freedom he felt in Heather's company, and how it was balanced by a newfound sense of security. Was that what love was? One big contradiction that allowed you to feel both reckless and safe at the same time? Wedged in the backseat of his old sedan, with the city twinkling below and Heather half-naked in his arms, Connor had thought so.

_Heather..._

A stab of pain in his heart gave way to a need for air. Unrolling the windows, Connor leaned his elbows on the steering wheel and wondered if the view could work its magic on him tonight.

Height created the illusion of a boundless space littered with lights. The City of Angels. A city too huge for dreams.

Why had he come here?

Not to make his mark on the silver screen, that most stereotypical of L.A. clichés — although Tinseltown's X-rated cousin had chewed him up and spat him out. Twice. Did that also count as irony? he wondered dully. Whatever. The point was moot. His reasons for moving to L.A. had had nothing to do with the movie industry or a lifelong hunger for stardom. No, he had come here to get an education at a world-class institution, to immerse himself in opportunities that only a big city could offer. To get laid. Go to the beach whenever he wanted. Learn to surf. Never have to buy a winter coat. And so that he and Farshad wouldn't grow apart. And because he wanted to distance himself from his small-town roots. Reinvent himself. Become Somebody. Why else did anyone come here for college — or for any reason at all?

He had checked a respectable amount of goals off this list. That much he knew. While he hadn't learned to surf, he'd left UCLA with an honours' degree in Political Science and a high-paying job in a booming industry — a job that was not only beyond reach for most college graduates but beyond their wildest dreams. His closet was stuffed with shorts and T-shirts, and he could count on one hand the number of snowflakes he'd seen in the past four years. Farshad was still his closest friend. And thanks to Dr. Wolowitz he most definitely wasn't a virgin.

_Heather..._

Pain stabbed again. He looked to the Hollywood Freeway, a bright stripe that bisected the city as it blazed toward downtown. He and Heather should have been down there, speeding into the night with all the other movers, shakers, and dream chasers who had a destination in mind, who had places to go and people to see. Or as Simon would say, "places to see and people to do." Same difference in L.A. They could have been in Santa Barbara by now, or more than halfway to Mexico, looking forward to 24 unbroken hours together.

And now that wasn't going to happen. In fact, he had no idea what was going to happen next.

Heather's splintered face seemed to float above the lights, her final words to him chasing each other through his addled thoughts, taunting him as they picked up momentum.

_I knew you wouldn't understand. You've had everything handed to you on a fucking silver platter._

What did she mean by that? Did she think he was spoiled? Entitled? Lazy? That because he had a rich uncle, he was getting a free ride through life, twiddling his thumbs while everyone else had to scratch and scrape to get ahead, if they even got that far?

If anyone was feasting off a silver platter, it was Farshad. He'd won the lottery the day he pointed a gun at Connor's dad. Any other outcome of their meeting would have had unimaginably awful repercussions. Connor couldn't bear to think of growing up without his dad, of never knowing his real father after his mom divorced Moose. He couldn't even process it. Nor he could picture a life without Farshad for a best friend, a brother.

And Simon, he also in the running. Orphaned as a six-year-old and spared a childhood in foster home hell? Woody and Addison Finkright had done far more than take in Simon after his parents' death. They had given him every perk, every privilege — a huge home in an exclusive neighbourhood, all the electronics a guy could want, a private school education, money for acting classes — all of it financed by their porn empire. Plus they had helped him start his own business, supplying him with scads of contacts and connections that made up for his age and lack of post-secondary education.

Then there was Uncle Cody, lucky enough to fall in love with an heiress at age 16 and never have to look back. "Born with a golden horseshoe up his ass," Connor had once heard his dad to say to his mom regarding Uncle Cody, whose father-in-law was one of the wealthiest men on the planet. So maybe his uncle was the luckiest winner.

Connor had benefited from no such windfall. He hadn't been rescued from a "backwater hellhole" or a lonely fate as an orphan. He hadn't stumbled upon ever-lasting love before he was old enough to vote. Apparently he hadn't now either, since Heather probably hated him. On the other hand, he was no expert in adversity, either. Despite the recurring trauma it had caused, inadvertently watching a porn video of his parents barely qualified as a hardship. It could not compare to what others had legitimately suffered. While Farshad's early life in Tajikistan may not have been as dire as he made it out to be, had it not been for Uncle Cody's generosity, he and his family might be eking out a meager living as yak herders to this day. Simon's mom and dad were dead, the worst thing that could happen to a child, regardless of kindly relatives being there to step in.

On the drive to Melo, Farshad had alluded to Uncle Cody also having "demons to conquer" — a crisis or breakdown related to something that had happened to Connor's dad. Dad rarely talked about the past, so Connor would have to ask Uncle Cody if he wanted to know more. Someday he would. He needed to know. He was pretty sure his dad had endured more than his fair share of adversity, although it had been his own choice to become a soldier.

However, that adversity did not include losing everything in a stock market crash, forcing Connor into a degenerate sideline so that he could finish his degree, and even if it did, Connor supposed Uncle Cody would have bailed them out, because he could afford to, and because Dad was his twin brother, and because Uncle Cody had the biggest heart of anyone he knew. Connor couldn't help it if Heather's family didn't have that kind of safety net. But that's all it was — a net. Not an excuse to slack off. There was no denying that he'd gotten his associate trainee job at TMVC because he was the founder's nephew, but would Uncle Cody have hired him if he were a slacker? No, of course not. Connor had worked his ass off for as long as he could remember, earning good grades so that he could get into a decent college, stay on the Dean's list, keep every door to the future open. He was still working his ass off. So how could Heather accuse him of being spoiled and lazy? Of coasting along, resting on someone else's laurels?

None of the lucky winners were coasting along, either. They were working hard, without exception, using their so-called silver platters as launching pads, springboards, stepping stones. Justifying that they deserved the opportunities the universe had bestowed on them. Farshad had already crossed a series of finish lines, from arriving in the United States, to earning a scholarship and landing a job at TMVC. He wouldn't slow down until a house like the ones on Mulholland Drive, guarded by rows of manicured foliage and a designer security system, belonged to him. High-flyer Simon was perpetually promoting, organizing, and hosting, competing against event planners twice his age, and with twice as much experience, to capture the imaginations and wallets of L.A.'s party-throwing set. "No rest for the wicked," as he liked to say.

And Uncle Cody had poured his heart and soul into his crusade to green the world. Favoured with brains, ambition, and academic trophies galore, he would have made something of himself with or without Wilfrid Tipton's billions and the seductive clutch of nepotism, a force that Connor already recognized as the one of the most powerful in the world. The only person Connor could think of who wasn't scrambling for the top — or basking in the view — was his dad. But after serving his country for six years, and surviving, surely he deserved a quiet life in the suburbs with a loving wife and kids. In a house the bank probably owned, thanks to Connor and his SoCal aspirations.

The freeway drew Connor's eyes like a magnet, a main artery in the sprawling network of freeways that linked the blocks and districts and cities of L.A. A vast pulsing metropolis of people racing from place to place in a never-ending stream of cars. He watched them enviously. How they know where they were going? How did they figure out which destination was A and which one was B? Was it luck? Trial and error? Did you have to make a certain number of errors before you stopped making a fool of yourself?

Those who weren't in their cars were at home, entertaining their friends and family, or waiting for them to pull up into the driveway, or were wrapped around each other in bed. Or they were out dining in restaurants and cafes, drinking in bars, or dancing on rooftops, next to swimming pools, just as he and Heather had the night they met, the night they got engaged. When he'd been so sure that she knew he was going to propose to her, knew she was The One and was impressed that he had the guts to tell her. When in actuality she'd been contemplating telling him about her past in porn. Her _past_ in _porn_. He couldn't have been more wrong about what was on her mind during those nerve-jangling moments of staring the future in the face. What would he have said if she'd told him then instead of having to do it tonight, crying and humiliated for all their friends to see? Could he have forgiven her if she'd been honest about her family's financial crisis and her solution, if they had been able to talk about it, just the two of them? Would he still have asked her to marry him?

_Heather..._

Sadness surged through him, squeezing his heart, cutting off his breath. He slammed his forehead onto the steering wheel, disappointed when its padding cushioned the blow. As he looked up, his eyes settled on the cluster of skyscrapers rising out of the nightscape. What had Simon and his big mouth said to him, before the beans were spilled? _Do you know how many guys would kill to marry a girl who likes to have sex in public? You should be thanking your lucky stars, dude. _Typical statements for Simon, but with some truth to them.

He'd lost her, lost his precious Heather. Now he was about to throw away everything else, too. How could he even think of leaving TMVC at the end of the associate trainee program? Abandoning a job that paid bucket-loads of money and contributed to a myriad of good causes? The best of both worlds. How often did that rarest of corporate combinations happen? TMVC was also his link to Farshad and making their friendship last as they kept on growing up. Not the most important factor for choosing a career, but still one that mattered. Probably more than it should. What mattered most, though, was that TMVC offered exactly the kind of career he was supposed to want, that he _should_ want, that anyone in his shoes would kill for. The kind of career he'd been slaving for all these years while friends partied into the night and he went back to his room to study, secure in the knowledge that he was doing the right thing.

Connor's stomach flopped sickeningly and he slammed his head down again, this time feeling satisfying needles of pain. How could he be so horribly, disgustingly ungrateful — to Uncle Cody, who had given him this opportunity? To his parents, who had paid for his degree and obviously believed in him? How could he be so ungrateful in general? What the hell was wrong with him?

He sat banging his head over and over until it ached, then grew numb, and the starbursts exploding behind his eyes blended slowly into tiny circles of red and blue and yellow light, blurring and overlapping through a haze of tears.

[***]

Connor had just turned the key in the lock, standing at the door of his apartment, when his phone began to ring. Blindly he dug it from his pocket and shoved it to his ear.

"Heather?" he asked anxiously, his heart leaping into his throat.

* * *

**A/N: OK, guys, give me your best guesses… who is calling Connor? And who do you think is the luckiest winner in this AU? **

**Thank you for reading and sharing your thoughts. Xoxoxo – Ellie **


	11. I Don't Care About Forever

**A/N: Hello, dear readers… Thanks for waiting for Chapter 11. It took a little longer to write than I hoped/expected. I was really impressed with the clever thoughtful guesses as to who would be calling Connor and who the luckiest winner is in this AU. As I told most of you in my review replies, the caller's identity is pretty much unguessable. I hope it makes you smile. This chapter also contains a major SLOZAC reference. I don't think I need to mention the episode title :)  
**

**On another note, one of the best things about living in a major metropolitan city like Toronto is the incredible diversity of restaurants, neighbourhoods, and things to do. Today while my best friend and I were downtown for brunch, we stumbled upon the annual Fetish Fair. Why couldn't it have been held a few months ago, while I was writing Chapter 1? A trove of research material — ****all the latex outfits you could imagine, right out in public, on a main street. **** Of all the fuzzy, hairy bodies on display, though, I have to say the dogs were still the cutest. Buttless latex pants = not a look that suits everyone. Just sayin'.**

**As always, thanks to Waldojeffers for astute beta-reading.

* * *

**

**Chapter 11: "I Don't Care About Forever"

* * *

**

_Suppose I never ever saw you  
Suppose you never ever called__  
Suppose I kept on singing love songs  
Just to break my own fall _

_Regina Spektor, "Fidelity"_

[-]

"Hi, Connor," said a small quaking voice.

"Kieran?" Alarm mixed with disappointment. His little brother was the last person Connor expected to be calling him just after midnight. "What are you doing calling so late? Is everything OK?" He glanced at the phone to see Dad's number on the screen.

"Daddy said I couldn't watch a movie, but I watched it anyway." Kieran whimpered. "And now I don't wanna go back to bed 'cause Zombie Mom will get me."

Connor rolled his eyes. "Kieran, _Zombie Mom_ is just a movie," he said in his best big brotherly voice. "She's not going to get you." Kieran's plight inspired a sharp pang of sorrow. _Zombie Mom_ was Heather's all-time favourite horror movie. They had watched it together countless times.

More whimpering. "She is... I need you to look under the bed."

"I'm a little far away for that," Connor pointed out. Three-year-olds had a shaky grasp of distances. He entered the dark apartment, breath bated by the irrational hope that Heather would be waiting for him — she wasn't — and flipped on a light. He thought of turning on the video feature to remind Kieran that he was in L.A. when he heard the sound of a throat being cleared, followed by, "What are you doing out of bed, little mister?"

"Ummm..." Kieran's uh-oh-I'm-busted tone brought on a smile, the tableau unfolding in Connor's mind without the aid of the video feature — Kieran in his Superman pajamas cowering in the hallway, phone clutched in his tiny hand and Dad standing over him trying to keep a stern face while his lips twitched with amusement. Dad's unfailing ability to know when he was up to something had baffled Connor as a child. He'd been utterly convinced that Dad had secret invisible eyes in the back of his head.

"Hand over the phone," Dad said. "Hello?"

"Hey, Dad."

"Connor?"

"Yeah, it's me, Dad."

"Hold on a second, I'm just going to get this little guy back into bed."

"Noooo," whined Kieran fearfully. "Zombie Mom will get me." Connor imagined Kieran squirming like a puppy as Dad scooped him up and carried him down the hallway to the bedroom that used to be his.

"Don't worry, there's nothing under the bed, nothing in the closet. You're fine. Into bed." Dad spoke firmly to Kieran, a tone that Connor knew well.

"I'm scared."

"Well, that's what you get for watching a scary movie I told you not to watch."

"Mmmff." Kieran could apparently think of no counter argument.

"I'll leave the night light on and the door open a crack," Dad said, his voice softening. "Now go to sleep, K."

"I wanna say good-night to Connor," Kieran piped up.

"Good-night, Kieran," Connor said, sending a hug with his thoughts. "Sleep well." It was easy to picture his little brother tucked under the covers, hugging the stuffed bunny he always slept with, the small blue night light glowing in the corner. Dad ruffling Kieran's blond hair, his transgression forgotten already.

"Night, Connor."

Connor heard Dad give Kieran a good-night kiss. "Sleep tight, K."

"Night, Daddy."

Several moments passed and then Dad asked cheerily, "So, how was your big party?"

"It was..." Which expletive best suited tonight's debacle? "It was OK at first and then it degraded into a giant suck-fest. And not in a good way."

_Yep, that about sums it up._

"What happened?"

_Zombie Mom_ droned in the background. Dad must have returned to the living room. Connor heard a faint scream. Zombie Mom had just vanquished the third baby-sitter. Then the movie stopped.

"Well..." What could he say? Connor had always been able to tell his dad whatever was on his mind. To date, That Night had been the only discrepancy, the only rift, in an otherwise relatively harmonious father-son relationship. And now That Night had reared its hideous head. Again.

The phone buzzed in his hand. Farshad's number popped up on the screen along with _Dude, are you OK?_

Connor shrugged at the screen. He would reply to the text later. When he knew the answer.

"Connor?"

"Yeah?" He pressed the phone to his ear, momentarily disoriented.

"Where are you now?" A modicum of suspicion had crept into Dad's voice.

"Home. Don't worry, I haven't been drinking and driving."

"Good to know, son. Very good to know. So what happened?"

Connor rested his head against the doorframe. He still hadn't moved from the doorway. A tumult of abstractions, half-truths, and lies dizzied him. It was impossible to predict what report of the party might filter through to his parents via Woody and Addison, or far less likely, via Farshad's parents — or a lesser branch of the interstate grapevine. There was no telling how the tale might mutate along the way. He could worry about that if and when it happened. At length he settled for, "Everything was going great until the stripper showed up."

"Usually that's when things get better," Dad remarked dryly.

"Not tonight. As soon as the stripper showed up, there was shock, horror, humiliation, and now Heather hates me."

Dad let out a low whistle. "Shit, son, that does suck in a bad way. But I think you should start at the beginning."

_At_ _the beginning?_ How did Dad always know when he was skirting around something? Damn him and his Special Forces training.

"Well... it started back in Frosh Week. There was this girl, and we were going to do..." Connor groped for a parent-friendly euphemism. "Stuff."

"Drugs?" queried Dad. "Sky-diving? Both? What?"

"Guy-girl stuff," Connor clarified through closed teeth. "Remember the talk we had when I first started dating Misti? That crap about the birds and the bees?"

"Gotcha. Continue."

"There was this video she put on, it was kind of weird, and I didn't like it, she thought I was gay and she kicked me out. That was the one and only time I saw her until tonight. Because she was the stripper."

"I see," Dad said slowly. He sounded confused by the rushed explanation. "But why on Earth would she think you're gay?"

"I, I didn't like the video," Connor reiterated desperately. "It was weird."

"Weird how?"

"Just... weird. Please, Dad, just take my word for it." While honesty had its merits — a concept sorely tested by the events of tonight — some things were better left unsaid. Including and especially Mr. and Mrs. Latex. His parents had worn masks in the video, after all. Clearly they had intended to remain anonymous. He had to let it be.

"There wasn't a horse, was there?" Dad persisted. " 'Cause I've heard about that one, and it's supposed to be _really_ weird."

"Dad!" Connor exclaimed, aghast. "No, there was no horse!" His imagination jumped on the tangent in spite of itself. _Would that have been preferable? _

_Yes. Yes, it would. Unfortunately.  
_

"Oh, I get it," Dad said in a worrisomely knowing manner. "The guy in the video was hung like a horse."

Nausea swept through Connor. "Dad!"

"No, seriously, there's no reason to feel intimidated. Those guys are only hired for their mutant over-sized attributes. They have nothing else going for them, and anyway, those scenes are completely unrealistic. There's no end of Viagra, special camera angles, pumps, tiny girls–"

"Yeah, I know they use tiny girls," Connor interrupted, bile rising in his throat. "Believe me, I know all about it. Because, as it turns out, Heather used to be a porn actress." The words felt strange and bitter on his tongue. "I found out tonight. In front of everyone. From Simon. Shortly after the stripper told Heather I'm gay."

Silence.

Connor swallowed hard, grimacing at the acrid taste at the back of his throat, and waited for Dad to appraise this bombshell as for the best. As exactly what you set yourself up for when you rushed into something and had no clue what you were doing. Exactly what he deserved.

"So," said Dad after a very long moment, "did she happen to mention any titles? Or a stage name?"

"Dad!" Connor was repeating himself at an alarming rate.

"Your mom is going to ask, so I figure I should have all the information."

"No, she's _not_ going to ask."

"You don't know that. It always pays to be prepared. Didn't they teach you that in Basic?"

Connor's knees gave out. He slid down to the floor, back against the door frame, and drew his knees up to his chest. _I wish we weren't having this conversation. I've taken enough abuse for one night. Why couldn't Uncle Cody have called instead? He wouldn't make fun of me._

"You know I'm just pulling your leg," Dad said then. "I'm just trying to make you laugh."

"Um, thanks," Connor conceded. Dad was well known for his snarky sense of humour. Very well known. "But I'm really not in the mood to laugh. I yelled at Heather in front of everybody. I was awful to her." His mind burned with the memory of his outburst, his fiancée's broken, tear-streaked face, the shocked expression of every person in Melo.

"Did she at least give you a reason?"

"Her parents' life savings were wiped out in the stock market crash last year. She needed the money for school."

"Huh." A non-committal response.

Connor nodded. "Yeah. My thoughts exactly."

"Why did she choose porn?" The inevitable question. "Couldn't she have done something else?"

Connor's eyes rolled to the ceiling as he shook his head. It was bizarre and slightly surreal to hear his dad say the word "porn." The 100-watt energy-efficient lightbulb Farshad had installed in the hall made him squint. Dark blobs floated across his vision. "I don't know. I really don't know. I'm in shock. I don't know how I'm feeling."

"So what are you planning on doing?"

"About what?" From his undemanding tone, Dad could have been inquiring what Connor planned to order in for a late-night snack. Sushi or pizza? Sorrow cut through him, constricting his breathing. Heather adored sushi. Would he ever be able to eat sushi again?

"About all of this?" Dad elaborated. "You said Heather hates you. But that doesn't mean you can't work things out. Do you still love her?"

Another shake of his head. "I don't know. I wish she'd told me before. If I had just found out before, maybe I could be OK with it. Maybe I wouldn't have been so mad. Or if there'd been a different stripper tonight, I wouldn't even know. Maybe that would be better. Or if I hadn't met that girl during Frosh Week, none of this would have happened at all."

"Well, let's go back and change some things," Dad said, and Connor heard a grin in his voice. "But we'll have to use your time machine because mine's in the shop. Needs a new flux capacitor."

"Should I call her?" Connor asked. "Should I just tell her I'm sorry I got mad?"

"If that's what your heart says."

"But what if she really does hate me? What if it's over?" _Over._ Such a cruel word. Connor's eyes throbbed. His back ached between his shoulder blades.

"That's a consequence you'll have to face."

"Or I could just let it all go. Forget I ever met her."

Dad sighed then. "Look, Connor, you know I was edgy about the two of you getting married so soon. But you have to ask yourself how you really feel about Heather."

Silence again. Connor stared at the floor, tracing a finger over the herringbone pattern of the hardwood tiles. Almost two hours had passed since he'd left Melo in disgrace. Three hours since he'd made love to Heather in the bathroom stall, kissing her with the hungry passion of a hero in a stupid romantic comedy, the kind that was pointless to watch since the trailer spoilered the ending — a prepackaged solution to the array of misunderstandings, confusion, and tears that culminated at precisely the three-quarter mark. That was why he'd grown to like horror movies. Because a tidy, happy ending wasn't a foregone conclusion. For the most part, a happy ending wasn't even an option. Wasn't that more realistic, a more accurate portrayal of life?

"I miss her," he ventured. "I miss her already." He'd begun to miss Heather before the impromptu stop on Mulholland Drive. "But what if she doesn't want me anymore? She said she knew I wouldn't understand why she did those movies, that I've had everything handed to me on a silver platter."

"Son, people lash out when they feel threatened," Dad said diplomatically. "They may mean it at the time, but as soon as they've said it, they don't mean it anymore. I think Heather knows you better than that."

_Does she?_ "OK, maybe Heather didn't mean it. But if she still won't take me back?"

"I'm not going to lie to you, that could be a possibility. It sounds like tonight was pretty painful for both of you."

"So what do I do then?"

"You move on. You focus on everything else in your life that's going well. You have your honours degree, a great job at your uncle's company, you have your whole life ahead of you."

"I hate my job," Connor blurted. "I'm good at it, but it's just not right for me. I'm bored all day, I feel trapped, and then I feel guilty because it's such a great opportunity."

"There's no rule saying you have to love your first job, whether it's an opportunity or not. It's just a job. You can always walk away."

Connor considered this. He had never thought of TMVC as "just a job." From Day 1, being an associate trainee had seemed like the holy grail of post-college employment. And now Dad had upended this notion. Was that all it was? A notion, an idea of his future that had little to do with his actual identity?

"I guess," he said after some moments. "But the pay... I mean, TMVC pays pretty well. I keep thinking the paycheque should cancel out the bad parts."

"Connor, a job is never just about the money. Yes, money is a factor and it's nice to have, but it isn't everything." Dad paused. "Even your uncle has had to learn that. And if you're worried that you'll offend him by wanting a different job, don't be. He'll understand."

Connor found himself nodding. On some level, he knew that Uncle Cody wouldn't be upset with him if he left TMVC.

"Like I said, it's just a job," Dad continued. "No matter what you choose, I want you to know that your mom and I are really proud of you, and we always will be."

"Thanks, Dad." Connor's voice turned croaky. "But, but what if I can't find something else I'm good at? Then I'll really regret leaving TMVC."

"You can still finish your officer training," Dad said. "I still have some pull. Just say the word."

A different kind of guilt flared. "I'll think about it, Dad." Perhaps he would. Perhaps he wouldn't.

"I know you think the future arrives all at once, but it doesn't. It happens bit by bit, over the rest of your life. You're 22, not 62. 'There's plenty of time to try things out, to figure out what you enjoy doing. The important thing is to just keep moving forward."

Connor expelled a draining breath. The bubble had burst. The house of cards had fallen, the house of cards he'd been building since graduation, since meeting Heather. Since before then, even.

"I don't care about all of that, Dad, I don't know what I'm going to do with my life." His voice cracked on a sob. "All I'm sure about right now is that I want to be with Heather. Even if it doesn't last forever. I don't care about forever, all I care about is now. As long as I have her, we can figure things out together. I just want her to walk through the door and for everything to be OK again. I just want to hold her in my arms again." Connor didn't want to cry, not with his dad on the phone, but it was happening anyway, hot tears stinging his eyes, and he pressed the heel of his hand to his face to keep the tears from leaking out.

"Look, I know it seems really bad right now, and it hurts like a son of a bitch, believe me I know how that feels, but whatever happens, it will get better." Dad's tone was kind, understanding, like he knew what he was talking about. "You won't ever forget this night, but in time it will hurt less."

Would it? Would it really? Connor's head hurt. His heart hurt. The faraway-ness of Dad's voice hurt. Weeks and months of hurt to slog through, before anything would feel even remotely normal again.

"Why don't you just come home for a few days?" Dad suggested. "Take a break. I'm sure Uncle Cody will give you the time off."

Connor shook his head, forgetting that Dad couldn't see him. Uncle Cody would give him time off if he needed it, of course he would, but it was the principle of the thing. Whether he liked being an associate trainee or not, he'd made a commitment to the program and that translated into a commitment to analyzing the newest batch of spreadsheets that would be piled in his inbox on Monday morning. Adults made commitments and he was an adult. His problems were of his own making, his own to solve, however he chose and however long it took to sift through the despair and cluelessness until he could puzzle out a new direction, a way forward that made sense.

Realizing this ached worse than any other revelation tonight, like a knife twisting between his ribs.

Connor wrapped his arm tighter around his legs, sniffling and shuddering from the sobs that were beginning to wrack him, and buried his face in his knees. Tears splashed off his cheeks, dampening the creased fabric of his pants. Gone were the days when a hug from Dad was all the comfort he needed after having a bad dream, a bad day at school, a rare fight with Farshad, or some other transient crisis. Such a long time ago, the miles sliding into the years, an impassable gulf between then and now. Too long ago.

"Son, it's going to be OK," Dad said, his voice calm and reassuring in Connor's ear.

That was the last thing Connor heard his dad say before a clicking noise roused his head from his knees.

The door had opened wide and Heather, opener of the door, stood there in her black dress and stilettos, illuminated by the bright glow of the hall light.

And she was smiling.

At least Connor thought she was. He swiped his sleeve over his eyes and blinked.

Yes, Heather was smiling. Her eyes were raw and red-rimmed, and her cheeks were pink with blotches, but she was giving him a brave, wobbly smile.

He looked up at her, his lips curving naturally. "You're right, Dad," he said into the phone. It was shaking slightly in his hand, his palm suddenly sweaty. "I think things are going to be OK. I gotta go, I'll call you tomorrow. Give my best to Mom and the girls. I love you, Dad."

"I love you, too, son," Dad said. He sounded like he might be smiling, too. "Good luck."

Connor put the phone on the floor, and the door closed as Heather took a step closer to him. She reached behind, pulled the zipper of her dress, letting it slip over her shoulders. That creamy skin. Her sweet, perky breasts.

Connor's heartbeat quickened. The dress kept sliding until it was a puddle at her feet. Her softly rounded hips and the black triangle of her thong. Her slender legs.

_Heather..._

Then she stepped out of the dress and into his arms.

* * *

**A/N: Childhood ends for all of us, and it can be a messy, painful process. Being an adult it isn't always a giant suck-fest, but as our young hero has learned, sometimes it does feel that way. ****Please let me know your thoughts. Lots of thanks and much love to you all. Xoxoxo – Ellie**

**For readers of R2, Zack told Bailey about his faulty time machine in Chapter 31 "Do You Play Video Games?" Extra props if you recognize the movie reference. This chapter also contains plenty of ifs and buts ****–**** which, as Connor's Great-Grammy Pickett would have told him, will drive you nuts.  
**


	12. OK, Dad

**A/N: According to the brutally hilarious and highly insightful **_**How Not to Write a Novel: 200 Classic Mistakes and How to Avoid Them—A Misstep-By-Misstep Guide**_** by Howard Mittelmark and Sandra Newman, "in fiction, all problems are just the opening chords of a song…. All such problems need their own little plot arc to give the reader closure."**

**This epilogue gives closure to various plot arcs in the story. How other plot arcs end may be left to your imagination. I know I promised you guys no more flashbacks, so I hope you will forgive me for going back in time once more. This honestly felt like the right final closing note for the story as a whole and the preceding stories in the _Repercussions_ series.**

**Thanks again to beta-reader Waldojeffers for wise counsel during the final arc.

* * *

**

**EPILOGUE: "OK…, Dad"

* * *

**

_And when you finally fly away  
I'll be hoping that I served you well  
For all the wisdom of a lifetime  
No one can ever tell_

_Rod Stewart, "Forever Young"_

[-]

**THREE AND A HALF YEARS AGO…**

As Zack pressed the Send button on his video phone, zapping the Finkwrights' phone number to Connor, he heard a commotion in the hall and looked up to see Melanie dart into his office shrieking, "Help me, Daddy, she's going to get me."

Mel's waist-length brown ponytail flew out behind her as she bounded toward him, pursued seconds later by a growling figure dressed identically in blue jeans and a purple sweatshirt. The villain had a similarly long blonde ponytail and wore a fluorescent green rubber mask, an imitation of the one in _The Mask_ and a by-product of a recent dinner at McDonald's.

Zack had just enough time to stand up, pushing aside his desk chair, before they began to run circles around him. Shilah, older by two minutes, cackled maniacally, her brown eyes sparkling through the holes in the mask, while Mel continued to shriek for assistance, widening her sky-blue eyes with mock terror.

Their antics cheered him. He would wait until after dinner to tell them their big brother wasn't coming home for Christmas. He would rather join in their fun than spoil it.

"I'll save you," he declared heroically, grabbing hold of Shi, who squirmed and flailed in his grasp. "Run for your life," he told the younger twin. "I'll hold her off as long as I can." Then he tickled Shi's sides, causing her to squeal with laughter, and Mel sprinted for the door.

When she was out of sight, he gave Shi a final tickle that was more like a hug and let her wriggle free. Still laughing, she took off after her sister and Zack walked to the doorway, laughing himself. Until he glanced down the hall and saw that the door to his and Bailey's bedroom was closed.

The situation would have to be dealt with swiftly and with determination, like ripping off a band-aid.

He sighed, grimly aware that he'd faced men armed with AK-47s with less trepidation than he was feeling now, and started down the hall, past the foyer and the living room.

At the kitchen he stuck his head in to check on Shi and Mel. The ten-year-olds were seated at the table, chattering a mile a minute as they drank glasses of chocolate milk. Would they summon him to play again? While they appeared to have forgotten about the mask, which lay on the counter behind them, he wasn't opposed to Barbies or even one of the educational board games Bailey insisted on buying for them which he thought were as dull as being dragged to the ballet. But his daughters were too engrossed to notice him and after a few moments of watching them, heartened by the reassuring baby-roundness of their faces as they whispered and giggled to each other, he knew he could not ignore the task at hand.

The bedroom door stayed closed as he advanced. When he reached the door, he drew in a deep, fortifying breath, then pushed it open.

Bailey lay on the bed, still wearing her work uniform of light blue scrubs. She was curled up in a ball with her face buried in a pillow, and she was making sniffling sounds. On the comforter he spotted the cordless phone from his office.

Approaching the bed was like walking up to an improvised explosive device. If handled with even the slightest of clumsiness, it would detonate in his face, taking valuable pieces of himself with it.

He sat down beside his wife and put a hand on her back. "How're you doing?" he asked softly, feeling her shudder under his splayed fingers.

No answer.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Mmm mmm" came the muffled reply.

They would have to talk about it, though, and the sooner the better. Marshalling his reserves of optimism, his best ammo in situations of maternal meltdown, he said, "Well, babe, our little boy is all grown up. He's standing on his own two feet. Means we did a good job."

Bailey rolled onto her side and began to cry, jagged rasping sobs that hurt his ears.

_Strike one._

Zack delved deeper into optimism. "Look on the bright side. You won't have to do a suitcase full of his dirty laundry. He doesn't need you for that stuff anymore."

In response, Bailey half-sat up and threw herself onto the comforter. "He doesn't need me at all," she wailed. "If he did, he would be coming home for Christmas. It's not even going to feel like Christmas without him. How could he do this to us?"

_Strike two._

"He's got himself a Swedish babe," Zack said, even though knew Bailey wouldn't consider this an acceptable reason for Connor staying in L.A. over Christmas. What mother would excuse her eldest child from a major family holiday on grounds of access to Swedish hotness? None that he could think of, including his own mother.

"But look on the bright side," he rallied, "he's finally getting over that frigid bitch Misti."

Bailey battered the pillow with her face. "I liked Misti. She's the kind the girl I would be proud to have as a daughter-in-law."

_Strike two-and-a-half._

"Oh, come on," Zack scoffed at this absurdity. "Connor may be grown up, but he's way too young to get married. He's only 18."

"Not in the eyes of the law. He's an adult. And... and," her voice scaled several octaves, "that means I'm old."

Zack moved his hand up to her shoulder and rubbed it tenderly. "You're not old, babe,' he assured her. She was only 36 after all. "You're still hot for your age."

"_For my age_?" Bailey echoed, her eyes wet and round with horror before she scrunched them shut and hurled herself onto the comforter again.

_Strike three._

He'd struck out _and_ detonated the IED, relegating himself to the ranks of blundering husbands who'd succeeded in shoving their feet so far down their throats that they could taste their own crotch sweat.

It was time to try a different tactic.

"Come here, babe." He lifted her upright, wrapping his arms around her as she sank into his chest, a bid for him to absorb her pain like the rock she needed him to be. "I miss him, too," He released her hair from its barrette and stroked it as it flowed over her shoulders. "It's OK," he started to add, that catch-all phrase for mishaps and disappointments, but suddenly he didn't have it in him. They would celebrate Christmas as usual, making sure Shi and Mel enjoyed it as much as possible, but he knew already, as Bailey must know, too, that Connor's absence would mark a turning point, a rite of passage heralding other Christmases that their family wouldn't spend together in one place as the children found intervening priorities and more exotic places to be.

It sucked. It had to happen, and it sucked.

But for now he and Bailey could take solace in the fact that they weren't bona fide empty nesters. Far from it, with two little girls scampering about, and yet the house had an undeniable emptiness without Connor at the breakfast table every morning, crunching cereal as he flipped through the sports pages or a textbook, without his sunny smiles and borderline self-deprecating humour, without his footsteps clomping through the hall and the noise of him and Farshad playing video games until all hours, just like he and Cody used to at the Tipton, and still would if they saw each other more often. Aside from having that emptiness filled for a whole three weeks, Zack had also been looking forward to having some back-up. With Connor away, he was outnumbered by females three to one. A disconcerting ratio.

Speaking of exotic places, his optimism advised, why not take up Cody and London's offer to join them and their brood in Tahiti for Christmas? The girls would love an island vacation, and Bailey deserved a break from domestic humdrum. It had been much too long since their last taste of 24-hour room service.

He was about to suggest this to Bailey when she said, her voice muffled by his sweater, "This isn't like Connor, it's just not like him at all."

"I'll grill Farshad when he gets home," Zack said, admitting to himself that he'd been thinking the same thing. "If anything is wrong, he'll know."

"Good idea." Bailey shrugged sadly and reached out to grab a handful of comforter, bunching it between her fingers as though she wanted to claw straight through the fabric and punish it for Connor's defection. "It was only yesterday that he called you 'Dad' for the first time." Her eyes welled with tears and she broke into a fresh gust of sobs. "And now he doesn't need us anymore."

A scratchy lump rose in Zack's throat.

She was right. It did feel like only yesterday.

* * *

_Eleven years ago..._

No matter how many children emerged from the elementary school at 3:15, scattering in all directions like a gumball machine had been knocked over, Zack could always pick out Connor within seconds as he waited by the curb in Bailey's Honda.

On this particular Thursday in early December, Connor trudged into view with his head down, feet and book bag dragging on the ground. Under "normal" circumstances, Zack might have rolled down the window and called out, "Hurry up, I've got a plane to catch." But, since he was an honorary Tipton-Martin and London had sent a private jet to the Amarillo airport, there was no catching to do and therefore no need to hurry.

"How was school today, buddy?" he asked as Connor climbed into the front seat and dropped his bag on the floor.

"Fine," Connor mumbled. Seatbelt fastened, he turned his head to stare out the window.

Despite Zack's attempts to start a conversation, Connor, normally a chatterbox, remained quiet as they drove to the airport, stopping on the way to pick up Bailey at the farm animal clinic where she worked.

As Zack pulled into the parking lot, his phone buzzed for the fifth time that afternoon.

"Probably Millicent again," he said to Bailey over his shoulder, scanning for an empty spot. London's long-suffering personal assistant had been bombarding him with updated itineraries for the three days he would be spending in Boston. A slew of meetings had been scheduled with Cody's legal team to review the documentation they had prepared to start the immigration process for Abdul Nazarov and his family. He also had meetings with London's newly formed scholarship committee, which had been hard at work organizing the annual Tommy Delgado memorial scholarship for children whose parents had been killed in terrorist attacks. The first scholarships would be awarded at a banquet in the spring, and London had asked him to say a few words about Tommy, his dead best friend, at the Tipton Martin Foundation for Word Peace holiday gala on Saturday night. In addition to the meetings, he also needed to squeeze in time to see his parents, who had just returned from their European singing tour — he was excited to see how they would treat him now that he was a parent, too — and Dr. Giffin, his psychiatrist at the VA hospital in Delaware where he'd stayed for most of June. Dr. Giffin would be in town for a weekend seminar and wanted to check on his progress in person since he was still having frequent nightmares.

"That poor woman," Bailey mused from the backseat. "As much as London has grown and matured since high school, I think I'd still rather shuck corn and swill hogs than work for her."

Out of loyalty to Cody, and because he couldn't ignore the soft spot he had for his almost-sister-in-law, Zack just laughed. To his and Bailey's mutual relief, Thanksgiving dinner with Cody and London had gone smoothly, and the heiress had kept an admirable lid on her snobbery, lavishing the majority of her attention on her brand-new nephew rather than on Bailey's small bungalow, as she'd feared — somewhat irrationally, he thought.

Since he wasn't a regular airline passenger, Bailey and Connor were allowed to accompany him to the plane after the security screening, and since he knew the pilot from his short-lived employment as Cody's bodyguard, Connor was given a tour of the cockpit, where he sat in the pilot's seat, fascinated by the array of buttons, dials, and screens.

"It's just like a video game controller, but bigger," Zack told him.

When they were outside on the tarmac again, Zack let go of Connor's hand and turned to Bailey, taking her in his arms. "Bye, babe," he said, looking into her wide brown eyes, momentarily hypnotized by them.

"Bye, Zack," she said, her voice catching wistfully on his name. They hadn't spent a single night apart since getting back together almost two months ago. As he ran his fingers down the side of her face and she stood on the balls of her feet to kiss him, he knew he would miss her for these three days.

Her mouth opened as their lips touched, and he swept his tongue over hers just once. _No making out in front of the kid_, he admonished himself. Besides, he and Bailey had said their official good-bye in the shower that morning. A very wet, very soapy good-bye.

Then Zack turned to Connor, who was silent again after talking animatedly in the cockpit, and squatted to his height. "See you soon, buddy," he said fondly, mussing Connor's hair. "I'll miss you."

He opened his arms for a hug and Connor stepped into them, but not before Zack saw his eyes narrow skeptically, and he felt a twinge of dismay. Didn't Connor know that he was already looking forward to Sunday night, that any day without him in it was one that Zack would happily fast-forward through just to see that mischievous smile again that reminded him so much of himself as a kid? Didn't Connor know that Zack, who had never believed in love at first sight, had always dismissed it as an outlandish concept, had fallen in love the very instant he saw those blue eyes? And it had only taken an instant to really see them. At times he even wondered if he could love another child as much as he loved Connor. An irksome notion since he and Bailey had decided they wanted a bigger family.

A moment or two passed. Zack gave Connor a kiss on his forehead and leaned back onto his heels, but as soon as he tried to stand, Connor collapsed against him, sobbing, "No, don't go. Please don't go away."

Wordlessly Zack gathered Connor in his arms, patting his back and rocking him gently as he cried. Looking up at Bailey over the top of Connor's head, he met her gaze with a shit-what-do-we-do-now? expression.

She bit down on her lower lip, her features tight with anxiety, reflecting the stress she felt over Connor having to cope with so many changes at once. A father who had arrived out of nowhere. A stepfather who had all but vanished from his life and grandparents in Kansas whom he rarely saw anymore. A bevy of new relatives, plus another set of grandparents whom he would soon meet in Vegas at Christmas. Quite a lot for a seven-year-old to digest.

Transferring his gaze back to Connor, Zack eased his son's head from his shoulder and looked into his face, tear-stained and heart-splittingly vulnerable, fear shining in his eyes, and something melted in his chest, and instead of trying to explain the colossal difference between three days and forever, he said, "Son, I don't have to go to Boston. I'll call Auntie London and tell her I can't make it. I'll call her right now."

The phone was in the pocket of his jeans, and he pulled it out, pressing the speed dial button for London's number. "Hi, Lon, it's Zombie," he said when the call went straight to voicemail. "Listen, something's come up, a family thing, and I won't be able to come to Boston after all. I'll explain everything when you call back. OK, talk you soon."

"See, all done," he said, sliding the phone into his pocket. Everyone else could be dealt with later. He smiled warmly at Connor to show he wasn't upset or inconvenienced. "No big deal. No trip. We'll do something fun this weekend, just you, me, and Mom."

"OK..., Dad," Connor said in a snuffly voice and returned his face to Zack's shoulder.

And then everything went blurry as Zack clutched Connor closer to him. _OK..., Dad._ With those three syllables, 2019 had run its course, the longest year of Zack's life, a year that had showed him over and over again what kind of steel he was made of. A year that also could have been very short, a fact he clearly remembered thinking as he plotted in a tiny, filthy prison cell with only an imaginary version of Cody to keep him company.

Connor couldn't have known that his Uncle Cody had reacted much the same way when Zack had let slip on a business trip to L.A. in September his intention to join an elite UN counter-terrorist unit. In spite of the crushing guilt, worrying that he'd literally given his little brother a nervous breakdown, all he could see then were the strings attached, his identity disappearing if he gave in to Cody's wishes and stayed in Boston. But here in Texas, kneeling on the tarmac with Connor's arms locked around his neck and Bailey, the mother of his child, watching them and the dim December sunshine slowly fading into twilight, he didn't mind the strings a bit. He welcomed them, couldn't imagine his life without them, needed them like he needed oxygen and food, just like Connor needed him, more than any taskforce, more than Cody, even more than he and Bailey needed each other.

A new year was beginning, three weeks ahead of schedule, a new and permanent era brimming with potential.

He couldn't wait.

Connor shifted to peer up at him, this boy who was his, whose jaw was trembling nervously, his eyes swollen from crying. "Are you OK..., Dad?" he asked.

"Yeah, I'm good," Zack assured him, his voice thick with emotion as he rubbed away tears with the back of his hand, both his and Connor's. "Just got something in my eye," he lied and kissed Connor's forehead again.

Beside them, Bailey was sniffling into her sleeve, and even the pilot, standing on the stairs of the plane, looked a little teary.

Moving Connor to his hip, Zack stood up, glanced apologetically at the pilot, and held out a hand to Bailey.

"Come on, let's go home," he said.

* * *

The evening sky cast a pall through the window, doing nothing for the atmosphere inside in the bedroom. Zack leaned across Bailey and switched on the bedside lamp, alleviating some of the gloom. They could have easily spent all night sitting here, lost in yesterdays, feeling sorry for themselves, but that wouldn't do. The girls would be hungry for dinner by now, life had to go on, and despite Connor's unsettling news, there were other developments to celebrate.

"Here's some good news," he told Bailey, sliding his arm back around her shoulders and giving her a squeeze. "We got another royalty cheque from Woodman Studios today."

At this Bailey mustered a smile, a thin watery smile but with a hint of spunk.

_Mission accomplished._

"Are people still watching that?" she asked.

He nodded affirmatively. "You bet they are. _Mr. and Mrs. Latex_ is still one of their top-sellers." The scarlet flush colouring her cheeks amused him, and he kissed the tip of her nose. "You did good, babe."

"You did a pretty good job yourself," she said with a small giggle.

"I'll top up Connor's college fund and put the rest in Shi and Mel's," he said, running a hand through her hair. "And I'll call our investment advisor tomorrow, see if we can start a new long-term diversified growth strategy. At this rate, we'll be able to afford to send the girls to an out-of-state college, too."

Bailey's face crumpled like a tissue and she flopped onto the comforter with renewed despair. "I don't want to think about our little baby girls growing up and moving away," she bawled.

_Strike four._

_Crap._

"Shhh, they'll think we're fighting," he said, putting a finger on her lips, even as he thought _Me neither, babe, me neither._

Throwing a wary look at the bedroom door, which amazingly hadn't been flung open yet, he lay down next to Bailey, feeling the past pulling at him like a magnet, and drew her to him. In this entrenched digital age, it wasn't too out of the ordinary to have a Technicolor souvenir of a period when the fire had burned brightest, a live-action snapshot of the sparks that had combusted to life when he stepped out the bathroom in a cabin on the _S.S. Tipton_ to see Bailey, his male roommate, shaking out a mane of long brown hair — could that really have been 20 years ago? The fact that their souvenir paid annual dividends was just a bonus, icing on their own personal cake.

Those sparks had a history of their own, sustaining an impressive number of casualties that included two break-ups, a long-distance relationship, and even more miraculously, an eight-year separation. The same sparks that no amount of household bills to pay or runny noses to wipe could completely grind down, that could be trusted to ignite whenever they had some time alone and Bailey's soft, voluptuous breasts happened to be pressed up against his torso, exactly as they were now.

Cupping her chin in his hands, he winked at her and brushed a kiss onto her salty lips. "Hey, I know what will cheer you up," he said confidently.

"What?" she asked dolefully, regarding him through her soaked lashes with unquestionable suspicion.

He lifted his lips to her ear, breathing in the familiar pineapple scent of her hair, and murmured, "Let's wear the latex masks tonight."

A moment later her face split into a wide, gratifying grin.

_Mission re-accomplished._

And then she began to laugh, the sweetest, sexiest laugh Zack had ever heard.

**THE END

* * *

**

**A/N: And cute little Kieran was born nine months later, as mentioned in Chapter 5 :) Contrary to Connor's thoughts in Chapter 3, of which the epilogue is a continuation, ****parents don't always get busy just to conceive a baby,**** but obviously it does happen. Thanks so much for reading, you guys, and I hope you enjoyed the ending. You guys truly rock, and as always, I couldn't ****have done this without your enthusiasm, insightful reviews, and ongoing support!**

**Thanks again, all of you, and happy reading :) **


End file.
